


Cleave To Your Like

by Aziexxx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Affectionate Touches, Beautiful Will Graham, Blackmail, Captivity, Dark Hannibal Lecter, Dubious Consent, Everyone notices, Forceful kissing, Gaslighting, God how did I forget that tag, Incest, Jealous Hannibal, Jealous Will, Kinda, M/M, Manhandling, Physical Abuse, Possessive Hannibal, Smitten Hannibal, Someone Help Will Graham, WIP, Will is beautiful, aggressive jack, based on All Flesh Consorteth by Gweezle, does that even need saying, implied threats, jealous Alana, murderous hannibal, naive will, smitten matthew, technically it's finished but I take forever to edit work :/, well-meaning alana
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-26 03:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14393010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziexxx/pseuds/Aziexxx
Summary: A re-imagining of Gweezle's 'All Flesh Consorteth' fic.___It takes only three weeks before Will cracks.Despite telling himself that he wouldn’t go looking for Hannibal Lecter, the thought keeps Will awake at night.A phantom shadow of a man lurks constantly at the back of his mind, as though daring him to look its way. Just a quick look, it whispers alluringly in his dreams, just a peek.





	1. Hannibal Lecter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All Flesh Consorteth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397920) by [Gweezle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gweezle/pseuds/Gweezle). 



> So I've always adored Gweezle's 'All Flesh Consorteth' fic. It's a fave of mine, in the hannigram fandom. You should most certainly read it, if you haven’t already, because it’s the main inspiration of this fic. Basically, it’s an AU in which Hannibal is Will’s biological father - but wherein Will doesn’t go and seek out his bio dad. And I got to thinking, what if Will does indeed seek Hannibal out, if only out of curiosity? 
> 
> Takes place approximately five years before this beautiful fic has been set (as such, Will is about 29? Which makes Hannibal 46 in this AU). Characters will be as dark as they are in Gweezle's fic, so heed the tags as they come, my lovelies. Hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it! 

 

_Will sucks in a breath, trying to remain calm. “What was his name? The med student?”_

_Edric shifts in the bed, grunting in pain before settling into a more comfortable position. “Hannibal Lecter.”_

It takes only three weeks before Will cracks.

Despite telling himself that he wouldn’t go looking for Hannibal Lecter, the thought keeps Will awake at night.

A phantom shadow of a man lurks constantly at the back of his mind, as though daring him to look its way.  _Just a quick look_ , it whispers alluringly in his dreams, _just a peek_. 

He wants to know what sort of man his sire is. That wouldn't be a betrayal to his Dad, he reasons. Not when he knows in his heart and mind that no one will ever replace Ed Graham as his father. Blood or no blood. This was just a matter of intellectual curiosity, spurred on by the loss of his Daddy. 

He spends hours bent over boxes of Chinese takeout and the old Parisian medical school records he manages to scrounge up, searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of his biological father.  

Where could he be? Still in Paris, or somewhere else? Was he even French or had he been there temporarily, like Will’s mother? It’s a thankless and tiring search that eventually proves fruitless. Despite spending all his free weekends looking for the man, Lecter remains ever elusive.

One afternoon, having just completed some paperwork at his desk, Will is once again searching online. A tap on his shoulder draws his attention away from his screen, and he looks up to see Officer Platt beside him. She’s a young, pretty woman, on the job for less than a year. She is also, Will has unfortunately discovered, incredibly tenacious and determined when she wants to be. 

Nearly every day she shows up at his desk, twirling her blonde hair and trying to meet his eyes. It makes him more uncomfortable than he cares to admit. Makes him glad that his surly attitude has curbed the attention of the rest of the female staff at his precinct. 

“Hey there, Will!” She chirps happily, voice high and already grating. “Whatcha doing there?” 

Even before she’d opened her mouth to ask, Platt was already peering around his shoulder to look at Will’s computer screen, annoyingly enough. Will hurries to minimize the window.

“Nothing, I was doing nothing” he huffs, pulling some random folders open on his desk and pretending to be engrossed. 

“Sure you were,” she intrudes into Will’s space, her chest flush with his arm as she maximized the window again.

“So, who’s Hannibal Lecter? A suspect? In which case?”

“I said it’s nothing!” Will yelps, cringing away from Platt’s cloying perfume and thus, unfortunately, his computer. “It’s not work related.”

“Oh? Huh. Can I help? I have an uncle who’s a doctor in Paris, you know.” 

 _That_ draws Will’s attention, if only for how absurdly convenient it sounds. He peers curiously up at her – or rather, at her shoulder – and she all but glows at his attention. 

“He’s a surgeon. Super rich, but cool, you know? I could ask him to ask around, if you’re looking for this Lecter guy?”

“I… yes, yes that would be great,” Will croaks, right hand automatically reaching up to adjust his glasses. “I mean, if it’s no trouble.”

“Not at all!” Platt enthuses, rubbing a warm hand down his arm. “Mind if I ask what it’s for, though? If it’s not a case?” 

Will wracks his mind for a plausible explanation, not willing to tell her the real reason. Platt looks on all the while, wide brown eyes guilelessly staring into the side of his face.

“It’s just, you know, a favor for a friend. Long lost relative, that kind of thing. Thought I’d help out.”

Platt is already nodding her head, smile wide and grip firm on his shoulder. “Totally! And that’s so sweet of you, to help out a friend like that. I’ll get right on it.” She pauses, lips pursed, before she rushed to ask, “Do you want to, maybe, get a coffee later?” 

She must see his rejection of the offer plain on his face, as she hastens to clarify, 

“Just to go over what I find, I mean! It’s not like we get a lot of personal time here at the station. Plus, I feel like I barely know you and I’ve been working here for _months_. You really need to get out there, Graham!”

Will can only smile weakly in response, and Platt takes that for the surrender it is. Smiling again, she skips happily away, a literal bounce in her step.

Will sighs and rubs a hand on the back of his neck. This was going to be a long week, if today was any indication.

And so it was. Barely a day passes before Will has a sudden run in with a knife to the shoulder. His partner, a middle-aged cop named Wilson, is more seriously injured with a gunshot wound to the stomach. Will’s busy work schedule is quickly transformed into a boring, and long period of recuperation. He finds himself with neither the will nor the energy to carry on with his search for Lecter.

This situation is not made any better by Wilson unexpectedly pointing the finger at Will for their routine inspection having gone wrong. He claims, during the misconduct hearing Will is forced into attending, that Will didn’t stop the suspect from firing his weapon despite having had ample opportunity to do so. Will argues that he couldn’t very well have done anything with a knife protruding from his shoulder. The panel reviewing the situation clearly agrees, as they undo Will’s temporary suspension.

Nonetheless, Will quits the police force the very next day. If there’s one thing he’s learned about being a cop, it’s that the force is perhaps the most loyal group of people there is. And Wilson, seasoned cop and generally better liked than Will’s grumpy self will ever be, definitely has the other cops’ loyalty. Will isn’t about to let himself be crucified working there any longer, thank you very much.

This, unfortunately, also means he can no longer rely on Platt to find Lecter. Sure, it had been a long-shot, but it was looking like his only real lead. He supposes he could try approaching her when she’s off work… if the thought didn’t make Will want to gouge his eyes out with a blunt and rusting spoon. 

Instead, Will fills his time by applying for the FBI. It’s the same sort of job, getting the bad guys and using his ‘talents’ for good. Unfortunately, this being the sort of job it is, Will’s required to do a psychological evaluation. 

Will arrives at Quantico, the FBI headquarters, with minutes to spare before his meeting with one Alana Bloom. She seems nice, if a little too curious about his… _condition_ , but Will’s used to that by now. She tells him that, although she’s qualified, she doesn’t conduct any evaluations herself, just oversees them.

She ends their meeting by handing him a slip containing the information of the psychiatrist he’s going to be evaluated by, which Will glances down at dispassionately.

His head immediately whips back down a second later, the name perplexing and exciting him in equal measure. Will almost pinches himself, convinced he’s hallucinating (again).

There, written in Alana’s neat and cursive handwriting beside the title ‘Evaluator’, is the name: _Hannibal Lecter_.


	2. First Impressions

Nearly four months since he began his search, and purely as a result of dumb luck, Will is about to meet Hannibal Lecter. He’s man enough to admit he’s more than a little nervous.

He spent hours after leaving his meeting with Alana pouring over every new piece of information he could find. Lecter had been an American citizen for years now, first as a surgeon and then a psychiatrist. Although he had studied in France, he had not been born there – Will still wasn’t quite sure where he _had_ been born. He was rich and well-respected; a true gentleman if the society papers were to be believed. Because apparently his sire spent enough time with the high society folk for them to be reliable judges of his character.

And now the waiting room to Lecter’s office is making Will feel suffocated.

He had arrived more than ten minutes early, unusually eager to make a good impression. He’s wearing a new suit and coat, ludicrously enough, and has finally used some of that aftershave he’s always being gifted year after year.

After long minutes sat in suffocating silence, Will gets to his feet suddenly, hoping to curb his nerves. He looks at the artwork on the wall behind the couches, heart pounding and palms sweating. Eventually, he must get lost in the picture, because his mind drifts away from the four small walls of the waiting room.  

It’s only when the door suddenly clicks open behind him that Will startles out of his daze. He turns to see a young, portly man exit Lecter’s office. Following close behind is a tall, well-dressed man, who can only be Lecter. Will’s new suit, which had cost him nearly a month’s worth of his old salary, suddenly feels like rags in comparison to Lecter’s finely crafted attire.

When the first man spots Will, he stops in his tracks, gaze sharply looking Will over. Will, in turn, stares at the man’s tie, awkwardly waiting for him to resume his departure. 

Instead, the man looks between Lecter and Will, brows raised as though awaiting an explanation for Will’s presence.

“I didn’t know you held appointments after 6pm, Doctor Lecter,” the man eventually remarks, after a few moments of awkward silence. His gaze is now solely focused on Lecter. “I would have asked for a later appointment time, if I knew!”

Will doesn’t need to be empathic to know the man wants to be the last patient Hannibal sees on any given day. As though by doing so he can leave a lasting impression on the doctor. It practically leaks out of him, his longing to be longed for, and Will unintentionally takes a step back – as though he can physically distance himself from the man’s desperation.

“I don’t, Franklyn,” Lecter calmly replies, voice deep and almost soothing because of the way his accent curves around the words. “This meeting is simply an exception I made for a friend. I’ll see you next week.” Lecter gestures to the main door, faint smile firmly in place.

But Franklyn doesn’t budge.

“Friend?!” he exclaims, looking aghast, betrayed almost. “Him?! I thought you said you can’t be friends with your patients, Doctor Lecter.”

Lecter doesn’t reply, only smiles again and gestures once more to the door. Perhaps sensing he won’t be getting an answer, Franklyn finally leaves in a huff, an annoyed glare directed Will’s way. As though Will’s the root cause of all of Franklyn’s problems with connection.

“Mr. Graham?” Lecter interrupts Will’s thoughts, stepping back towards his office. “Please won’t you come in?”

Will allows himself a single glimpse of Lecter’s face as he steps forward, and is surprised by the maroon eyes gazing back at him. They’re strangely stunning, a shade of brown that’s so coppery it almost looks like blood.

Annnnd there he goes again. Will shakes his head subtly, as though to shake out the near constant thoughts of death and blood from his head, and follows Lecter into his office. It won’t do to come off as unstable right now.

 

Will must have come off as unstable. He’s not sure how, exactly, having only been in Lecter’s company for a scant fifteen minutes. Nearly his entire focus had initially been on examining Lecter, staring at his face, at the breadth of his shoulders, as though to catalogue the differences between them – which, there are _many_. Will doubts there’s a single part – beyond his DNA, that is – of Lecter in him.

As a result of this examination, Will’s maybe said all of five words to the man… Okay, maybe _that_ was the problem.

“I am sorry, Mr. Graham, but I cannot recommend you for the role.” Hannibal calmly tells him, eyes on the notepad he’s currently writing in. “I do not think this sort of job will be good for your mental health. I’ll send my report to Doctor Bloom, but I’d be more than happy to answer any questions you have for me today.”

Will tries not to show any disappointment on his face, frustrated both about the lost job opportunity and at this session being over so quickly. He’s only just begun to let his guard down and already it seems Lecter will just slip through his fingers.

Will says the first thing that pops into his head, desperate to prolong his time with Lecter.

“It’s because I’m unstable, isn’t it?” He asks, eyes focused on the stag statue he’s been admiring for the last few minutes.

Lecter must be done with his notes, because he slowly set his pen and book down on a side table before turning to face Will.

Will, in turn, makes an effort to look at Hannibal, as though this alone will be enough to keep Hannibal’s attention.

…Jeez, did he just sound like _Franklyn_ for a second there?

“To be frank, Mr. Graham, yes,” Hannibal informs Will impassively, as though he’s _bored_ , his maroon eyes blank as they gaze into Will’s. “You lack the required social skills needed to be in the FBI and, I believe, may suffer some mild hallucinations. This, paired with your hostile tendencies, does not make for an ideal FBI candidate. You are, as you put it, unstable.”

Will’s starting to think he gets his bluntness, not to mention his rudeness, from Lecter.  

“And you got all that from, what, ten minutes of mostly one-sided conversation?” Will challenges, eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” The ' _obviously_ ’ hangs there unspoken, but no less apparent. “As I said, Doctor Bloom will have my full report, but in short my assessment is this: you mostly attempt to avoid eye contact, which implies an inability to grasp social cues. At the very least, you abhor the connection such contact brings. Your inability to hold a proper conversation highlights a failure to focus – this is perhaps, as I said, due to hallucinations. At least twice so far I have noticed you drifting away from the here and now. Finally, you demonstrate hostility in nearly every action, from your defensively crossed arms to the frown that has graced your face nearly this entire meeting. Does this explanation suffice, Mr. Graham?”

Will thinks his mouth might be hanging open, if only slightly. Lecter definitely notices, if the miniscule upward twitch of his mouth is any indication.

“Well, Doctor Lecter, I’m sorry but I don’t agree with your assessment,” Will finally manages to blurt out, both shocked and annoyed by Lecter’s analysis.

“Oh?” Lecter replies calmly, a more pronounced smile curling the corner of his lips. “I was not aware you were an expert on such matters. Please, by all means, grace me with an analysis of your own. I would be delighted to hear it.”

He clearly thinks that will be the end of that; he’s used to getting the last word. One leg crossed over the other, he’s totally relaxed and in his element – and damn if Will hasn’t felt so humiliated in all his life.

“Fine,” he retorts angrily, “I will.”

Eyes now firmly locked on Lecter’s own, Will stops holding himself back from simply _seeing_. It’s normally something he avoids at all costs, looking into someone like this, but Lecter has somehow managed to claw his way under Will’s skin with that honeyed voice of his.

“You’re ostensibly a healer, having been a doctor and now a psychiatrist… but that’s not really you, is it? No, you enjoyed putting Franklyn in his place too much for that to be the case. Liked putting me in my place too, for having all but ignored you today. I wouldn’t call you a sadist, not really, but you like to see others in pain, to watch them suffer. You like to belittle and humiliate those you see as lesser than you.”

Lecter’s got an eyebrow raised, looking only slightly interested. If anything, it’s as though he’s simply humoring Will. It grates at Will’s already frayed nerves, and he pushes viciously on.

“The amount of money and time you’ve spent on your appearance is also telling. Your clothes and this office are opulent, arguably exceedingly so. It all but screams you’re compensating for something – and I don’t mean in the dick department. No, you were poor before, truly dirt poor, and are now striving to be the complete opposite. To make up for the things you lost. The extent of all of it even makes me think…”

Will pauses suddenly, head tilting as his eyes peer curiously at Hannibal, _into_ him, the man himself rigid and upright in his seat. His face has gradually become a carefully blank slate.

“It makes me think you might be trying to make up for losing some _one_ , rather than just some _thing_. A loved one, someone precious to you. Someone younger, perhaps?”

Hannibal’s left eye twitches, just barely, but Will’s eyes catch it. They always do.

“Oh. A sibling. You lost a younger sibling. I’m sorry.”

It’s like all of a sudden, Will is pulled from out of a stupor, eyes wide as he slams his mental walls back down. He breaks eye contact with Lecter, suddenly looking anywhere else but at him. He feels ashamed to have taken such glee in taking Lecter apart; he’s clearly a complicated man, a man who’s suffered greatly in his life, and here Will is… all but basking in it!

Will stands up in a rush, breathing hard, hands grasping his coat.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Lecter,” Will says, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but in Lecter’s fucking _opulent_ office. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. Feel free to send your report to Doctor Bloom.”

He turns swiftly on his heel, feet moving directly to the door he’d entered from.

He barely makes it more than a foot before he feels a large hand clamp down on his elbow, hard.

Lecter, when Will finally turns to look at him, seems to be breathing as hard as Will. His chest is heaving and his lips are parted slightly. It’s quite the contrast to the stoic and unflappable persona he’s worn so far.  

“Don’t leave, Will. I asked you to provide me with an analysis and you certainly provided that. Sit back down, please.”

Slowly, as though he thinks Will may bolt the second he lets go, Hannibal removes his hand. Eyes never leaving Lecter’s, Will bites his bottom lip in uncertainty, half convinced he should just do as the doctor fears and flee the room. After a moment of internal deliberation, however, Will decides to sit again, swiping his tongue across his now dry and sore lips.

Lecter’s eyes track the movement of his tongue almost religiously, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple like a gunshot to Will’s psyche.

 _That_ … he did not expect. Especially not after trying his best to verbally flay the man. But, then again, scientifically speaking… Will supposes it’s entirely possible for Lecter to be attracted to him. Genetic sexual attraction is something Will is aware of, if not necessarily knowledgeable about. And it’s not as though Lecter knows he’s Will’s father. Nonetheless, the thought of it disturbs Will.

Sitting far back in his chair, Will adjusts his glasses until they obscure his eye line. Better to get rid of the temptation to _look_ altogether.

“I don’t know what more there is to say, Doctor Lecter. You’ve failed me on my psych eval., and that’s that. I think it would be best if I just left.”

“No, dear Will, if anything I would like to apologize. I provoked you, it is quite clear to see now, although it was not my intention to do so.”

 _Bullshit_ , Will thinks, but does not say. Whatever sort of person his sire might be, one thing Will already knows with certainty is that he is nothing if not precise in all that he does.

Lecter continues, unaware of Will’s internal thoughts. “I found your analysis quite refreshing. Very astute, also. Like you were peeling my flesh from my bones, using only your eyes. I’m assuming this wasn’t purely an observational analysis though, hmm? You appear to have quite the imagination…”

Lecter trails off, clearly fishing, and Will gives in to the man’s unspoken request. Sighing quietly, he lets his eyes wander about the room, trying not to think too hard about what he should or shouldn’t say.

“I just interpreted the evidence. It’s obvious, it’s always obvious to me why people do the things they do or are the way they are. I can… _see_ them. Something to do with mirror neurons in my brain, I’m not entirely sure. I stopped letting psychiatrists try to get inside my head years ago.”

Hannibal looks increasingly enthralled the more Will talks, which is a hugely different response from his earlier lack of interest in Will.

“That’s remarkable,” Hannibal murmurs quietly, sitting at the very edge of his seat. “Although, regrettably, I maintain my position that you are too unstable to join the noble ranks of the FBI, I would be honored if you would agree to meet with me again.”

Will’s hackles raise immediately. Typical. Even Lecter, it seems, just wants to get inside Will’s head like so many other psychiatrists before him. Will shudders, remembering the brief ten minutes he had endured in the slimy Frederick Chilton’s office as a teenager, and thinks _never again_.

“No thank you, Doctor Lecter. I’m afraid I’ll have to decl–”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Will, but I think you misunderstand me,” Hannibal smoothly overtakes Will’s indignant outburst, tone calm and saccharine sweet. “I do not want to analyze you, or write a paper about you, or whatever else you may be thinking. I merely offer you the opportunity to meet with me on an unofficial basis. I doubt the FBI will want to let you go, whether or not they give you this job. You are too valuable. Surely it would be beneficial to have someone to talk to, while you adjust to your new life and responsibilities?”

“And what would you get out of such an arrangement, Doctor Lecter?” Will can’t help but ask, curiosity wining out over his (potentially misplaced) indignation.

Lecter smiles a Cheshire cat grin, his eyes flickering over the contours of Will’s face.

“Why, the pleasure of your company, of course.” 

Will can’t help his small shudder at that, mind instantly wandering back to his earlier discovery. 

It’s not a bad offer, per se, particularly considering all of the hopes and intentions Will had come to this meeting with. He’s not sure he’s quite ready to reveal his relationship to Lecter just yet, not like he had originally planned to, but he could work his way up to it.

Mind made up, he swings his gaze up to Lecter’s face briefly, before immediately looking down again.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so yes, Franklyn technically doesn’t become Hannibal’s patient until much later. But this is an AU of an AU - gimme some leeway, lol! Also, I kinda secretly adore Franklyn, he’s so funny and weirdly endearing. (Plus I’m pretty sure I would be Franklyn if I lived in the Hannibal universe *sighs mournfully*).


	3. Divine Intervention, Or Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, in case anyone’s wondering, there’s a reason why I made Hannibal so dismissive of Will when first meeting him. In this AU, he’s not been given any prior info on Will or his gifts. Will himself doesn’t help matters by being as distant as can be, too in his head to give any of the sort of responses that would normally strike Hannibal’s interest. Will must seem normal and bland to Hannibal… until things got heated that is ;) 
> 
> Secondly, as you can probably tell, my Will is quite the smart cookie. Really knows how to use that empathy of his, doesn’t he? Not, mind you, that he sees that Hannibal’s a serial killing cannibal! Lol, all in good time. Hope you enjoy this chapter! I see it as this AU’s take on Hannigram’s S1 dynamic. Lots of people-food and murder conversation. :D

Lecter was right. Despite not getting into the FBI, Will is offered a teaching position. He takes it. 

He also starts meeting with Doctor Lecter – _please, call me Hannibal_ – more regularly. Despite their bumpy start, Will finds him… interesting, to say the least. He’s certainly charming and intelligent, as Will had already guessed, but also, it turns out, an excellent cook. 

One evening, after a prolonged conversation discussing Will’s frustration at having to deal with Jack Crawford – the head of Behavioural Science at Quantico – Hannibal had offered to make dinner. It was late, he had argued, and Will must be hungry. Will had agreed almost immediately, and continued to do so thereafter whenever Hannibal invited him to dinner.

But the more time he spends in Hannibal's company, the greater the emphasis becomes on the difference between them. Hannibal is sophisticated, rich and handsome. Will is mostly average in all things.

In a way, it’s almost comforting, this reminder of the vast space between their respective realities; for all that they may share blood, by nature this man could not resemble Will's father less. 

Further unlike Will’s father, Hannibal seems to like nothing better than to discuss serial killers with Will. It’s apparently a pass time of his, analyzing murderers, and he almost always manages to subtly nudge Will into discussing his lesson plans with him.

Will doesn’t really mind; it’s helpful, if anything, in fleshing out his theories. He just doesn’t particularly like doing so as they _eat_.

Take now, for instance. Will is sat at Hannibal’s dining table, enjoying a beautifully cooked meal… and talking about the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Although people have described him as both a psychopath and a sociopath, I don’t think he’s either. I’m not sure there’s a word for what he is. In his mind, what he’s doing isn’t wrong, not really. He understands why _other people_ might see it as wrong, but for him… he’s entirely justified.”

“And why do you think that is?” Hannibal questions relentlessly, eyes locked firmly on Will’s face as he takes another bite of pork.

“Well, because he thinks the people he kills are lesser than him… less human, even. They’re animals, pigs for the slaughter. They must have done something, said something, that he found vulgar. He elevates them with his murders. It’s like art, almost. As ugly as they might have been in life, he makes them beautiful in death–”

Hannibal makes a strange sound, half cough and half groan, and Will turns to him in concern.

“Are you alright, Hannibal?”

“Yes, yes, dear Will, entirely fine,” Hannibal clears his throat, cheeks slightly pink. “I’m fine. That is certainly a fascinating outlook on the Ripper. You almost sound as though you’re enamored with him.”

“ _Enamored_?” Will huffs, his own blush spreading down his neck in embarrassment. “Hardly. This is just what I see, what his murders are telling me. Just because I understand someone doesn’t mean I– I _like_ them. You of all people should know that.”

At Will’s raised brow, Hannibal bows his head, conceding to his point.

“I suppose so.” Will hadn’t noticed before, but as he watches now he realizes Hannibal is quite the slow eater, taking time to savor each bite. “You know, Will, I don’t know if I’ve said so before, but you have the most singular ability, this empathy of yours. It is quite extraordinary.”

Will blushes helplessly once more, head bowed. He supposes it must seem that way to Hannibal, to any outsider, but Will has always had a hard time seeing his ability as anything but a curse.

“Oh! Where are my manners, your glass is almost empty. Allow me to refill your wine.” Hannibal suddenly exclaims.

Before Will can protest, Hannibal has already re-filled the glass, almost to the brim. In comparison to Hannibal’s own half-full glass, it’s quite a lot. Perplexed, but nonetheless grateful at Hannibal’s hospitality, Will takes a large sip.

Hannibal smiles that Mona Lisa smile of his, taking a much smaller sip of his own beverage. Then he opens his mouth to undoubtedly ask Will yet another insightful, but inappropriate, question.

The night progresses in much the same manner, though Will drinks a bit more than he thinks he should have. As Hannibal leads him back out to the hall to put on his coat, Will is wobbling ever so slightly, and Hannibal looks concerned.

“Perhaps you should not drive tonight, Will,” he murmurs quietly, making Will have to lean in to hear him properly. “It would be no trouble for me to drive you home. You could come to collect your car in the morning?”

It’s probably for the best. Will’s head is a little heavy, more so than it normally gets after just three glasses of wine. 

“All right. If you really don’t mind.”

The drive home is as long as always, but warm because of Hannibal’s heated car seats. Will sinks down in his seat, head against the window as he dozes.

A tap to his shoulder jolts him upright, and he wakes to see they’ve reached his home.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Hannibal only smiles. He then, surprisingly, gets out of the car to open Will’s door for him.

They walk over to Will’s house together at a sedate pace, the cold air making Will shiver.

Once they reach his porch, Will turns to say goodnight to Hannibal. Before he can do more than open his mouth, however, the man has Will pushed up against his own front door, lips crushed against lips.

Will is… he doesn’t know what he is. For a second, he just stands there, dumbfounded, hands in the air on either side of Hannibal’s head.

The moment Hannibal’s tongue gets into the picture, however, licking into Will’s mouth, is when Will’s brain finally seems to come back online. He scrambles to push Hannibal back, hands on his chest and face turning away from the man’s hot, seeking mouth.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he whispers urgently, tongue slurring slightly. “Hannibal. Doctor Lecter. Please, we _can’t_!” 

Hannibal moves back no more than an inch, still too close as he peers down at Will’s rapidly reddening face.

“Why ever not? Are we not both grown men? Are you not as attracted to me as I am to you?”

Will isn’t sure what to say in response to that, shocked to think he might have been signalling any kind of _attraction_ to Hannibal.

Not that he gets a change to say anything at all, as Hannibal clearly isn’t expecting any further protest. He pushes forward once more, hand grasping Will’s chin and tilting it up.

Their next kiss is initiated as swiftly as their first, though it’s rougher and more demanding. Will can’t seem to pull away, Hannibal’s body a solid weight pushing in from all sides and his head still oddly heavy.

The moment Hannibal’s lips travel down to Will’s neck, freeing his mouth, Will gasps out the only thing he can think of to make Hannibal stop.

“I’m your son!”

Silence. Apart from Will’s own gasping breaths, he can’t even hear the crickets that usually chirp at this time of night.

Hannibal has never appeared more still, his lips hovering above the spot on Will’s neck he’d been sucking a mark into moments earlier.

“I beg your pardon?” 

For a moment, all Will can do is stare at him. At his peculiar eyes, and high cheekbones. A stranger would never be able to see a resemblance between them, so it’s no wonder Hannibal sounds scandalized and disbelieving. 

“I’m your son,” Will repeats a bit more sedately, fighting to breathe normally. “I only found out a few months ago, tried looking for you. Having you appointed as my evaluator must have been luck, or divine intervention, or something… I– all I know is that you met my mother in Paris while you were at medical school, that you slept with her. Her name is Emmeline Rideau. Do you remember her?”

The name must be familiar to Hannibal, because his eyes widen imperceptibly, before his whole face becomes blank.

Instead of releasing Will, however, as Will expects him to, Hannibal’s grip tightens on Will’s hips. His eyes focus on Will’s face with an intensity that’s just shy of frightening.

“Yes. She was a most interesting woman. Not as intriguing as yourself, of course, but I remember she was very beautiful. You resemble her quite a bit, now that I know to look for it. How old are you, Will?”

“Twenty-nine. I was born in June.”

Hannibal grows silent once more, dark eyes focused on Will with an almost ravenous attention. Will is starting to feel more than a little uncomfortable, and finally manages to extricate himself from Hannibal’s fierce grip.

“Well,” Hannibal finally murmurs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I can certainly see your hesitance to kiss me now, dear Will.”

Will can’t help but laugh helplessly at that, eyes meeting Hannibal’s with considerably less reluctance.

“But nonetheless, I would like to have a paternity test done.”

 


	4. Daddy Dearest and The Copycat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside, you may be able to pick out some of the dialogue from the show in this chapter. Right at the end, there’s a bit where the dialogue just… fits. Couldn’t help myself. So, yeah, credit to the show writers? Lol.

It’s a match. The paternity test. Will was sure it would be – his father had had no reason to lie, after all – but still Will feels somewhat taken aback. This makes it _real_.

A 99.99997% match. There can be no doubt now that Hannibal really is his biological father. 

Hannibal himself looks as shaken as Will feels, his hands holding the paper so tightly Will thinks it might rip.

It almost makes Will feel sorry for the man. Here he is, decades later discovering that a random fling he had as a teenager has resulted in a child – a child he’s recently come on to, no less.

“Well, that’s that, I guess.” Will mumbles, a shaky hand running through his hair. “Dad was telling the truth.”

“Dad?” Hannibal asks, a strange inflection in his voice. 

“My father, Edric Graham. He’s the one who told me about you, just before he died. I wouldn’t have known otherwise to look for you.”

“Ah,” Hannibal responds, slowly folding the paper and putting it in his waistcoat pocket. “Well, it’s a good thing he did, isn’t it?”

“…yes,” Will replies, avoiding Hannibal’s piercing gaze. “Though clearly I should have spoken up sooner. I didn’t mean to… _lead you on_ or anything, Hannibal. I’m sorry if I said or did anything to make you think I was interested in you like that. I just wanted to get to know you better.”

“Not at all, dear Will,” Hannibal replies, a proprietary hand reaching over to squeeze Will’s shoulder. “I should be the one apologizing. Clearly, I misread the situation, and your interest in me. I’m glad we got this cleared up. I should like nothing more than to spend more time with you from now on, as father and son.”

That surprises Will. Hannibal hardly seems the fatherly type, his fashion sense notwithstanding. But Will can hardly begrudge him this much, not after what Will’s put him through.

“Sure. That would be nice. I mean, the dinners and conversation so far has been good. I’m not sure what else we could be doing as, er, father and son.”

“Oh, I assure you, Will,” Hannibal replies, hand sliding from his shoulder to the small of his back as he leads Will into his kitchen. “There’s so much I have yet to show you.”

 

“The opera?” Will knows his face must tell Hannibal exactly how he feels about _this_ particular revelation. 

“Yes, Will, the opera,” Hannibal responds, his calloused fingers smoothing down the lapel of the new suit he had cajoled Will into letting him buy. “I would have thought it would be obvious the moment I sent you to get this fitted.” 

“Yes, well, forgive me for not knowing the difference between a suit and an _opera_ suit, or whatever it was I was supposed to have noticed while that evil little man poked me with his needles.”

Hannibal laughs quietly at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. He’s grown exceedingly more relaxed and open with Will over the past few weeks since they had the test done. It warms Will in a way he has no desire to examine.

Will smiles back at him, secretly pleased, before sighing grumpily when he remembers their evening plans again. He smooths down the front of his suit nervously, embarrassed to be wearing such tight-fitting clothes. So tight, in fact, that they feel like a second skin. 

“Come now, Will, it will hardly be so bad,” Hannibal soothes, helping Will into his new coat now. “We shall enjoy the performance and then spend a short amount of time in the company of my peers. You can hardly begrudge me the opportunity to show you off, now can you, when I’ve only just found out you exist?”

No, he cannot. He supposes someone of Hannibal’s standing is expected to make regular public appearances. His earlier research on the man had certainly pointed to this being the case.

The performance part of the opera, it turns out, Will does enjoy. Although he can’t understand a word of it – it’s in Italian, he thinks – the emotion is easy enough to read. He’s effortlessly pulled into the plight of the characters, captivated by their voices. Hannibal is equally enraptured, gaze entirely focused on the stage whenever Will happens to glance his way.

When the performance comes to a close, he and Hannibal both stand to applaud the cast, with equal vigor.

When he turns to Hannibal, he finds the man already facing his way, smiling.

“You enjoyed it?”

“Yes, very much,” Will murmurs, taking Hannibal’s elbow in a loose grip when he holds it out to him. “I don’t speak Italian, but I think I understood the story. It was wonderful.”

“Indeed…” Hannibal agrees, leading Will away from their seats and into a large, open hall. “Though I admit I found your reactions to the performance almost more enchanting.”

Before Will can think to stammer out a reasonable response to that statement – _when had Hannibal even looked away from the performance?_ – a loud, familiar voice begins calling out to Hannibal.

“Doctor Lecter! Doctor Lecter! Over here!”

Oh, and look, it’s Franklyn. Just perfect.

The over-eager man makes his way over surprisingly quickly, an elegantly dressed older lady following behind him at a much calmer pace. 

“Oh, Doctor Lecter, I–”

Spotting Will, Franklyn halts immediately. Eyes narrowed and spine straightened, he looks Will up and down as one might a leper.

“Oh.” He sniffs, visibly less enthusiastic. “Didn’t see you there… what was your name again?”

Before Will can reply – and he really has grown tired of these interruptions – the older lady Will had noticed before speaks up. 

“Well, Hannibal, I was about to ask if what this young man says is true, but now I simply must ask where you found this delightful creature?”

“Mrs. Komeda, lovely to see you again,” Hannibal greets the woman with a warm smile, placing a light kiss on her hand. Franklyn, who has so far been entirely ignored by Hannibal, looks visibly distraught. “This is Will. My… _friend_.”

Will isn’t sure if he imagines Hannibal’s emphasis on the word, but seeing as he can hardly question him about it right now anyway, he simply smiles at the woman. Hannibal clearly likes her very much, to have given her such a cordial greeting, and Will has no intention of embarrassing him here.

“Hi.” He says, in a quiet murmur, feeling that dastardly blush of his coloring his cheeks once more at her obvious appraisal. 

“Oh, Hannibal, isn’t he just precious!” Mrs. Komeda exclaims, and Will sincerely fears she might start pinching his cheeks.

“Ahem!” Franklyn interrupts, an ugly, dark flush of color staining his own cheeks.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Komeda sighs, peering playfully up at Hannibal from underneath her thick, dark lashes. “This young man informs me he is your friend? I must admit I was rather startled at the prospect, considering how… selective your taste in friends has been in the past.” 

Hannibal visibly grimaces – which can only mean he meant for them to see him do so, since his expressions are normally much subtler – as he turns to face Franklyn.

“Franklyn, we have talked about this before,” Hannibal murmurs quietly, almost gently, expression pitying. “I cannot be your friend. I am your psychiatrist. It would not be ethical, nor beneficial to your treatment, to have a relationship outside of those bounds, flattered though I am.”

Franklyn sputters in response, face growing redder by the second, before his eyes catch on Will and seem to harden. 

“But, _Will_ –”

“ _Franklyn_.” Just one word, harsh and exasperated, and Franklyn is immediately quiet. Hannibal’s hand moves from the small of Will’s back to his hip, grip firm and protective. 

The movement startles Will, as he hadn’t even noticed when Hannibal’s hand had first been placed on his back, let alone his hip. Franklyn clearly notices Hannibal’s hold as well, because his mouth starts to open and close like a fish. Once he notices Will staring back at him, however, he snaps his mouth shut and glowers at Will once more.

“Well.” Mrs. Komeda interjects into the awkward atmosphere, hands clasped together in front of her body. “Do tell me about yourself, Will. Do you work? What did you think of the performance tonight?”

 _Does he work?_ What sort of question was tha– Ohhh. She thought he was Hannibal’s… _kept boy_. Kept man? Whatever the terminology, it was no wonder really; Hannibal could be so careless with his affection. He’s been a lot more physically affectionate since Will revealed the real nature of their relationship, and Will hasn’t had the heart to tell him how uncomfortable it makes him. Perhaps that should change. 

“The performance was lovely. Quite a nice change to my work. I’m a teacher.”

“Will is a criminal profiler. He works at Quantico.” Hannibal interjects, more than a little pride in his tone. “He’s already quite renowned in psychological circles for his articles on the subject, and I’m sure he will flourish in his new job, too.”

The comment makes Will blush again, but he smiles up at Hannibal briefly in gratitude for the compliment. He, in response, gives Will’s hip a short squeeze.

“Oh, Hannibal, I am glad to see you so happy and settled,” Mrs. Komeda gushes, right hand placed over her heart. “I have so despaired you might waste your days away as a bachelor forever. What a waste that would have been.”

Will unthinkingly opens his mouth to protest, but the woman in question gets pulled away from them quite suddenly. One moment, she’s stood before them with a wide grin on her face, and the next she is being twirled away by a pot-bellied man in a dark purple suit.

“That would be Mr. Komeda,” Hannibal murmurs quietly in Will’s ear, startling him. “Not nearly as charming as his wife, but equally entertaining, in his own way.”

“That’s… great?” Will responds, mind still stuck on what Mrs. Komeda had said. “Listen, Hannibal, what she said–” 

“An unfortunate assumption, I’m sure, but not one you can fault her for, dear Will. I would hardly be the first person to come to an event such as this with a beautiful young man on my arm.”

Will thinks he might as well permanently paint his face pink, with how many times he’s managed to blush tonight.

Sighing, he not so subtly turns them towards the tables set up at the back of the room, wanting a drink and also a reprieve from Franklyn’s glare, which still hasn’t abated in the slightest.

Hannibal takes the hint, gaze passing over Franklyn as he leads Will over to the closest table. 

“What would you like, Will?”

“Do they serve whisky here?” He asks, hopeful but not overly optimistic at his chances.

Hannibal gives Will a small smile, finally stepping away from him to walk over to the table where the drink servers are.

Will, in turn, looks down at the table in front of him. Maybe if he eats something, that could put a stop to the butterflies currently dancing around in his stomach?

Will has only been eyeing the hors d'oeuvres for maybe a moment, however, when he hears a throat being cleared directly beside him.

Jumping in shock, Will nearly knocks into the table. Probably would have done, had a long-nailed hand not whipped out and steadied him in time.

Will looks up to see the owner of the hand – a short, plump woman wearing a heavily jeweled gown – is smirking at him. The instance of eye contact is enough for Will to _see_ her; this woman has a superiority complex a mile high, as well as a penchant for harassing whoever she sees fit. Particularly people she finds attractive. 

As soon as she opens her mouth, the stranger confirms Will’s suspicions.

“Well hello there, darling. I haven’t seen your pretty face here before,” She coos, her once-over of Will’s body so obvious and demeaning it leaves him feeling slightly sick. “Are you here alone?”

“No, actually,” Will grimaces, turning back to the table and, consequently, his back on the lady. “If you’ll excuse me…”

Will barely makes it three steps in Hannibal’s direction before the woman grabs hold of Will’s arm, sharp nails digging into his flesh.

“That was _rude_.” The woman snarls quietly, turning Will around roughly so that she can trap Will between her body and the table at his back. “Here I am, making polite conversation, giving you _compliments_ , and you’re going to be rude to me? Do you know who I am?”

“Mrs. Stanwick. May I help you?”

Hannibal, _thank god_! Not that Will’s incapable of handling things like this on his own, but damn is Will glad to see him right about now. Another minute and Will might have said or done something he would no doubt later regret, if only for how it could affect Hannibal’s standing here.

“Doctor Lecter,” the lady purrs, suddenly the picture of demureness, taking a step away from Will. “Not really, no. I’m just making conversation. Is that a crime?”

“I’m afraid your definition of what constitutes as a conversation is drastically different to that of the rest of polite society, Mrs. Stanwick. Are you alright Will?”

Hannibal’s previously cold and hard tone immediately warms while addressing Will, his hand stretching out in offering for Will to grasp. Will does so, squeezing Hannibal’s fingers in both reassurance and thanks, before grabbing the drink Hannibal has stored in the crook of his arm.

“I’m fine, Hannibal, thank you,” he murmurs, trying to pull the two of them away from the now silently fuming woman. “Could we please leave? I don’t mean to pull you away from your friends, but I think I’d like to go home now.” 

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal replies, setting his drink down on the table. “I apologize. Clearly I should not have left you alone.”

At that, he glances disdainfully at Mrs. Stanwick. Before the woman can respond in any way, however, Will downs his two fingers of whiskey – and, _wow_ , that was stronger than he’d expected – and pulls Hannibal towards the main doors by the hand. 

The drive back to Hannibal’s house is as silent as it had been when Hannibal had first driven Will home, all those weeks ago. The comparison might have made Will anxious, considering the way _that_ particular journey ended, had he not taken that swig of whiskey. 

Just as before, Will’s head feels strangely heavy. Not in a bad way, per se, but certainly more than he expects from _two fingers_ of whiskey. He’s still trying to figure out what’s wrong with him, and when he became such a lightweight exactly, when they reach their destination.

As always, Hannibal moves over to Will’s side to open the door for him, and then proceeds to help him slip out of his coat once they’re inside. It’s become a routine Will finds strangely comforting; just another endearing quirk that Will has fit into the puzzle that is Hannibal Lecter.

After dinner, and a few glasses of wine besides, Will is feeling incredibly tired.

“Perhaps you should just stay the night, Will,” Hannibal offers, hand brushing across Will’s shoulders as he walks past him. “I have plenty of spare pajamas for you to borrow, and as I understand it, your neighbor has said she will care for your dogs until tomorrow morning, hasn’t she?” 

“But, I have a– a meetin’ tomorrow mornin’, with Alana n’ Crawford,” Will slurs sleepily, stretching his arms high above his head while he yawns. 

“All the more reason to stay,” Hannibal reasons. “I shall wake you in the morning, and we can have breakfast together before you leave.”

And Will really doesn’t have it in him to protest any more. He can already picture the luxurious sort of bed and bedsheets Hannibal must own.

Nodding, he gets up from his seat and follows Hannibal up the stairs.

 

When Will arrives at Quantico the next morning, it’s with a surprisingly well-rested head and a comfortably full stomach. Hannibal’s food had been delicious and his conversation as inappropriate, but nonetheless engaging, as always.

Specifically, they had been discussing the Copycat. A new serial killer has emerged in Baltimore in the past few weeks, his murders in the style of multiple known killers. The press, unsurprisingly, is having a field day with this. And now Jack Crawford wants a meeting with Will.

Freddie Lounds – _who else but her?_ – had found the first victim, a young woman who had been disposed of in an alley. She had been dressed up in Victorian era garb, her round face painted with powder and rouge, throat and chest ripped to shreds. Jack the Ripper.

Then two hacked up bodies were found in a park, their torn limbs sewn together into a miniature totem pole. One of the bodies was a fresh kill, but the other had been a match for a missing person’s nearly a decade old. Lawrence Wells.

A young man was then displayed in a parking lot, the skin of his back flayed open and spread to look like wings. His hands are joined in front of him with rope, as though in prayer. Elliot Buddish.

Finally, a few days before Will and Hannibal had gone to the opera, a twelve year old boy had been found on the front steps of the BSHCI. He’d been speared through every limb with metal rods and knives. It’s clearly meant to reflect the Chesapeake Ripper’s _wound man_ murder, but the execution – not to mention the choice of victim – is so far from the Ripper it’s almost laughable. 

Will rubs a hand across his eyes, already agitated in anticipation of being forced into Jack’s company once more. The man is boorish and rude – ruder than Will, even – and seems to have latched onto the idea that somehow Will is just the man he needs on his team. 

As Will parks his car in the Quantico parking lot, he longs to be in the comfortable warmth of Hannibal’s kitchen again. He’s not sure how or why, considering how reluctant he normally is to be sociable with other people, but he really does like spending time with Hannibal. There’s just _something_ about him. He pushes and prods at Will, but he also listens to him like no one has before. It’s… nice.

_“I think it’s quite clear what he wants,” Will mutters, once he’s finished chewing the flavorful sausage in his mouth. “Attention. Most probably the Ripper’s, since he’s the only serial killer he’s copied that’s actually alive or active right now.”_

_“And do you think he will have it?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“This Copycat. Will he have the Ripper’s attention?”_

_Will can’t help but scoff._

_“No, he will not. What this guy’s doing, it’s plagiarism, if anything. Unoriginal. The Ripper will find it… dull.”_

_Hannibal’s eyes are warm, and the hand he places on Will’s neck comforting. He refills Will’s cup of coffee and Will smiles in thanks, adjusting the long sleeve of the pajama top Hannibal lent him when it obstructs the movement of his fingers. He feels like a child in their parents clothing – which, well, is accurate, he supposes._

_“Do you not think the Ripper might appreciate this Copycat’s effort, if it has been made with the hope of bettering himself?”_

_Will scoffs again, meeting Hannibal’s eyes with more than a hint of derision on his face. He knows Hannibal knows better._

_“Of course not. He’d appreciate creativity more than someone simply copying him. Not to mention the victim. That’s… the Ripper doesn’t do that. He has basically no boundaries, but I know he doesn’t hurt kids.”_

_Hannibal’s eyes are bright while he gazes at Will, looking almost proud at the deduction, and Will begins to feel hot under the collar at his regard._

_“Finish your breakfast, Will.”_

Jack Crawford’s office, when Will finally finds it in the maze of offices and classrooms that make up Quantico, is as uninviting as he expects it to be. Jack sits behind a large desk, clearly meant to intimidate, already in conversation with Alana. They stop speaking, however, once they notice Will in the doorway.

“Will!” Jack beckons Will towards him – like he wasn’t already, you know, heading in that direction. “Thank you for coming. Take a seat.”

Will sits in the chair next to Alana’s, directing a strained smile her way. She looks as radiant as always, and Will is hit with a familiar pang of desire that he quickly smothers, unwilling to jeopardize their newfound friendship with something as juvenile as lust.

“How are you Will?” Alana asks, kind smile on her pretty face. “I hear from Hannibal that you’re settling in well in your teaching position. And the students, too, have been singing your praises. I’ve no doubt yours will soon be a class they’re all clamoring to take.”

 _That_ is certainly news to Will. He hadn’t been aware he was a topic of conversation for Hannibal and Alana. Or that they were even friends.

“Good, thanks. The job is, uh, really good. I like it.”

She nods enthusiastically at him, as though she wants him to go on, but luckily Jack interrupts before he can.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Bloom, but this isn’t a social visit. There was _another_ Copycat victim this morning, or haven’t you heard, Will?”

No, Will hadn’t heard. The killer was escalating, perhaps because of a lack of response from the subject of his admiration. 

Alana looks annoyed at Jack’s aggressive inquiry, but concedes to his authority, sitting back in her chair.

“It was at the BSHCI again. Not the front steps, though, it was on the roof. Another copy of one of the Ripper’s kills.”

“What exactly is the point of this meeting, Jack?” Will grumbles in reply, gaze just left of the man’s face. “I remember telling you quite clearly I don’t want to be involved in any cases.” 

“Well forgive me for wanting to save lives, Will! This guy’s last victim was a child, a _child_ for God’s sake. When are you going to get your head out of your ass and realise your refusal to help is just as good as killing that kid yourself?”

“That’s not fair, Jack!” Alana interjects angrily, an attractive blush high on her cheeks. “I didn’t bring him here for you to berate him. Will is free to help however much he wants to, or not at all, _if that’s what he wants_. You can’t force him on this.”

Jack glowers at her, and then at Will, raising his brows as though to say, _well?_  

“I’m sorry, Jack, but I still don’t want to be involved. I can give you a profile, if you want, but I won’t visit any crime scenes.”

It’s a decision he’s come to after much discussion with Hannibal. Once Hannibal had learned how large a mental toll this kind of _involvement_ could have on Will, he’d immediately cautioned against it. It warmed Will to think he cared.

“To hell with a profile, Will!” Jack yells, slamming a fist down on his desk with a bang. “I can write a damn profile myself. I _need you_ on this. I’ve heard all I need to know about your closing rate as a cop, read all the articles written about your _talent_. You could help us stop another kid from being murdered here!”

Alana looks ready to intercede on Will’s behalf again, but he stops her with a gesture and a small smile. He gets where Crawford is coming from, as much as the man annoys him.

“Fine. Say I help you with this, _and only with this_ ,” Will hastens to add, when it looks like Jack is about to interrupt him. “What could I possibly do that a qualified agent couldn’t do for you? If I’m not writing a profile, and I’m not visiting a crime scene, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to talk to a patient at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. His name’s Abel Gideon. Yesterday, he told Doctor Chilton he knows something about the murders. You won’t know this, we’ve kept it out of the press, but there was no CCTV footage of last night, or this morning. It’s all been cut entirely. I don’t know about you, but I find that incredibly suspicious, and I’d like you to see what Gideon knows about it.”

“You still didn’t answer my question, Jack,” Will replied, frowning at his hands. “Why me? Any of your agents could do this for you, probably do a better job of it.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack leans back in his chair, with the satisfaction of a fisherman that knows he has a fat fish on his line. “This… imagination of yours, Will, that’s what I need right now. You see what no one else can. You’ll be able to see if Gideon is lying, if he really knows anything. Maybe even take a look around the rest of the BSHCI, keep your eyes peeled for any suspect individuals.”

“… you think the killer is at the BSHCI?” Will extrapolates. It’s not a bad theory, per se, makes a lot of sense, but– “Do you think the killer is just going to waltz up to me, let me get a good look? If he really is there, I think I’ll be the last person he lets anywhere near him. ‘Keeping my eyes peeled’ can only do so much, Jack.”

“I just need you to try.”

 

The BSHCI is as dark and dreary as Will remembers. Frederick Chilton, on the other hand, seems to have grown into even more of a slime ball. 

As soon as his eyes spy Will walking up the main stairway, he bustles down like an excited schoolboy to greet him.

“Will!” he purrs, tilting his head down as he tries to force Will into making eye contact. “Long time no see. I must admit, I was so surprised when Jack called, but I suppose it makes sense that this is what you’re doing now. Those who can’t do, teach, huh?”

Will has a sudden, vicious urge to wring Chilton’s greasy neck.

“Take me to Gideon, Chilton,” he sighs, instead, moving past Chilton to make his way up the rest of the stairs.

“I see you’re still grumpy, Will. And here I thought that was just teenage rebellion.” Chilton huffs, leading the way once they’re inside the building.

Their walk down the winding hallways of the BSHCI is filled with Chilton’s incessant chatter, as the man attempts to goad Will into conversation. Will doesn’t know why he bothers. If the tactic hadn’t worked on a teenage Will, it’s hardly going to work now.

Finally, they come to a stop at the junction of two long corridors.

“Well, here we are,” Chilton is clearly more than a little miffed at being ignored by Will, his words clipped. “As I’ve already told Jack, this is pointless. But go ahead, waste your time with him.” 

And with that, Chilton flounces off, his shoes click-clacking on the tile floor.

“Mr. Graham?” A drawling voice lisps from behind him.

Will turns to see a young man leaning against the wall. He’s handsome, with dark hair and light eyes, dressed head to toe in white. 

“Yes? Are you taking me to the visiting room?”

Will glances down at the man’s identification, reading the name written there in blocky black letters. Matthew Brown.

“Sure am. You ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be. Is it just through there?”

A few feet down one corridor is a room made visible by a wall of glass, which Will assumes is the visiting room that’s been prepared for his meeting with Gideon.

Matthew nods, false smile on his face as they make their way towards the room. When they reach it, Matthew enters the code for the lock and opens the door. Will moves to make his way inside, but Matthew halts him with a hand to his shoulder, and then begins to quietly rattle off a list of rules,

“Do not pass anything but soft paper, no pens, no pencils. Do not accept anything he gives you. Do not let him touch you. Do not touch him. I’ll be right outside, and I’ll be able to hear you, so call me if you need me. Have a nice visit, Mr. Graham.”

Will nods, eyes lowered as he enters the room. He watches Matthew slowly close the door behind him. Gideon, when Will turns to face him, is watching him like a hawk.

“Hello, Doctor Gideon,” Will says as he sits down, choosing a random spot on the wall behind Gideon to focus on. “My name is Will Graham. I’m with the FBI. I understand you have some information you’d like to share?”

“Oh, I would very much like to do so, Mr. Graham, but you must know it’ll cost you,” Gideon crows, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Oh?” Will asks, unenthused. “And you think the information you have is so valuable I’ll be willing to bargain on your behalf?”

“Well, you’d hardly be here if it wasn’t, would you?”

“I wouldn’t assume you know why I’m here, Gideon, if I was you. You can tell me what you know or you can keep it to yourself, if you want. I’m just here to listen.”

Gideon, surprisingly, appears quite charmed by Will’s laissez faire attitude. His smile is sharp and happy when it spreads wide across his face. 

“Well aren’t you a sassy one? Fine, fine, I suppose I must give you something, hmm, a few drops to quench your thirst? He’s here, at the BSHCI. The Copycat. But that’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid, not without something to sweeten the pot.”

“That tells me exactly nothing, Gideon. We already know that much. Try again.”

Gideon huffs, left hand absentmindedly rubbing his right arm. Will’s eyes track the motion, silently making note of what he sees there, mostly hidden by the man’s arm hair.

“Very well, Mr. Graham,” Gideon complains theatrically, rolling his eyes like this whole meeting is beneath him. “How about this? I’ve seen him in action.”

Now it’s Will’s turn to huff, annoyed at the prospect that Chilton may have been right: this is a waste of Will’s time.

“You’re locked up in here, Gideon. I doubt they’d let you waltz around wherever you please, let alone go up to the roof or out the front door. You’re lying.”

“Am I? Perhaps I have ways of leaving my lovely little cell. Perhaps there are people in here who allow me the courtesy of doing as I please, for once.”

Rolling his eyes, Will pushes his chair back a little, as though some distance from the man across from him will make this whole process less vexing.

“I doubt very much, Doctor Gideon, that even if you had the kind of freedom you’re implying, you’d be spending it with a killer like the Copycat.”

“Why, do you think he’s too crazy even for me?”

Will can’t help but to chuckle quietly at that, amused by Gideon’s clumsy attempt to twist his words around on him.

“I don’t think someone as… careful as he is could be crazy,” Will responds, mind wandering to the Copycat’s current span of murders. “I think he’s different. Maybe a lot of people believe him to be crazy, but the reason for that is he hasn’t let people understand much about him.”

“But you, you understand him?” 

Will snorts, looking up at Gideon from under the cover of his fringe. “I think I can understand anyone, to be honest. Just like I understand the only reason you called for this meeting was to try to arrange to be moved from this facility.”

Gideon is genuinely surprised at this deduction, one brow raised as he leans back in his chair.

“And what makes you think I would ever wish to part from Doctor Chilton and his fine establishment?” 

“There are track marks on your arms, and you keep rubbing at them. I’m guessing they’re drugging you, clearly without your consent,” Will murmurs quietly, mindful of any recording devices Chilton may have stored in the room. “There are bags under your eyes, so you’ve barely had any sleep. But the most telling clue, Gideon? You’ve yet to give me any new information on the Copycat. You keep deflecting. Which makes me think you don’t actually have anything.”

Gideon’s shoulders slump lower and lower the longer Will talks. It’s as much of a confirmation as Will knows he’s about to get. 

“But I’ll see what I can do,” Will says, after a moment of consideration. “Even if you don’t actually have anything on the Copycat. I can’t make any promises, of course, but I’ll let the right people know what’s going on.”

“And why would you do that?” Gideon asks, bewildered. 

Will smiles instead of responding, rising from his seat to signal at Matthew to open the door.

As Matthew walks Will back to the main entrance, Will notices him giving Will increasingly prolonged glances. When Will finally looks back at him, he seems to take this as an invitation for conversation.

“That was nice of you. Saying you’d help Doctor Gideon. Didn’t know you cared about the guy so much.”

Will scoffs, unsurprised to learn the orderly had been listening in on their conversation.

“I don’t. I just don’t like Chilton. I’m guessing that Gideon getting moved away from this hellhole will really piss him off.”

Matthew smiles, intense eyes roving over Will’s face, as though memorizing it. He holds open the large, solid oak door of the main entrance for Will, crowding close when Will brushes past him to get out.

“Goodbye, Mr. Graham.”

This last sentence is said without a hint of a lisp, and it makes Will whip his head right back around to face Matthew.

His eyes are bright green, expression cautious but curious. This man is dangerous, Will knows instantly. He’s certainly not the docile hospital orderly he’s trying to come off as.

Will steps closer, unconsciously trying to get a better read of the man, before he catches himself and pulls back.

“Goodbye, Matthew.”

 


	5. Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve been re-reading this fic as I go (as any self-conscious writer is wont to do), and I realise my Hannibal’s not quite like Gweezle’s. So… sorry? If that’s what you came here looking for. I mean, there’s deffo parts of that Hannibal in here (he gets much darker in later chapters), but he’s currently mediated by his situation, i.e he’s still unknown and not, you know, in prison. So he’s holding back, for now. 
> 
> Also, yes, Chilton is a little older in this AU. Maybe Hannibal’s age? Old enough to have already been at the BSHCI when Will was just a teenager. Just roll with it. :)

Will is sat on one of Hannibal’s plush couches, marking some of his students’ assignments, when he hears the news.

The Copycat has killed again. Just two days after the last murder. And Jack apparently _really_ needs Will on the scene.

Normally, Will ignores texts of this nature, preferring to ignore Jack than have to deal with a confrontation with him.

But this time Jack has attached a photo to his message.

Will has his coat and scarf on in record time, and is just about to walk out the door when Hannibal calls his name.

“Will? Where are you going?”

Will turns to see Hannibal still in his white apron, spatula held in hand. He probably came over as soon as he heard Will moving around in the entryway.

“I’m so sorry, Hannibal, I think I might miss dinner tonight. There’s been another Copycat murder.”

“And? I thought we’d discussed this?” Hannibal frowns, walking over to place his free hand on Will’s shoulder. “You do not have to do something just because Jack Crawford demands it, Will. You can say no.”

The open concern for Will in Hannibal’s voice warms Will, and he finds himself silently grateful for this man’s presence in his life. Nonetheless, he shakes his head, pulling out his phone to save time explaining.

“I’m afraid this is something I can’t say no to.”

“No, I can see why not,” Hannibal murmurs, narrowed eyes locked onto the image. “It seems you have an admirer. But dinner _will_ be waiting for you when you return, Will. I’d hardly eat without you.”

He strokes a thumb across Will’s cheekbone, smiling softly. Eyes lowered, Will slowly pulls away, moving towards the door.

“Alright, if you insist. Just don’t complain if we end up eating cold food.”

“Never, dear Will.”

 

The exterior of the crime scene is bustling with people, both FBI and police alike. It had been called in by a jogger, and the first responder (a rookie cop) had apparently thrown up so badly there was fear the scene had been contaminated.

Since he had arrived, Jack had cordoned off the main crime site so that only his team could access it. Or rather, his team plus Will.

“Will. Finally. You wanna explain to me what I’m seeing here?”

“I would think it’s self-explanatory, Jack.”

Really, it is. A man has been strung up between the branches of two trees. His arms are stretched on either side, and his feet pinned together, like Jesus on the cross.

The man’s heart hangs from one arm with what looks to be a string. Heart on his sleeve. His eyes are also missing, though Will would bet his life savings that they were blue.

Because this man? Is the spitting image of Will. His hair is dark and curly, with a fringe that almost covers his eye-less eye sockets. His lips are plump, the cupid’s bow distinctly the same shape as Will’s. He looks to be maybe a few inches shorter than Will, but otherwise their bodies are the same size: trim and slender.

Altogether, it paints a pretty, if gruesome, picture.

“Well then do me a favor and explain it to me anyway.”

“It’s… me,” Will sighs, gazing up at the body with brows furrowed. “It’s meant to represent me. Your sacrificial lamb. He took away my eyes because I can see him.”

“And why choose you at all?”

“I don’t know.”

At Jack’s incredulous look, Will feels the need to defend himself.

“I don’t! I’m not psychic, Jack. He has an interest in me, clearly, but I couldn’t tell you why. He must have seen me when I visited the BSHCI. He’s telling us he knows we’re looking for him, and that he’s looking right back.”

Jack is clearly not pleased with Will’s answer.

“Well then, let’s give him something to look at. I can think of just the thing to lure him out.”

 

“So you’re to be the bait?” Hannibal asks, pulling their dinner from the oven – he’d apparently left it in there, covered in tinfoil, to keep it hot. Will would have just microwaved it, but to each their own.

“Yes,” Will sighs, head resting against Hannibal’s kitchen island. “Chilton’s apparently been planning this charity ball for the BSHCI for weeks now, and Jack plans to use that.

Get Chilton to invite all of his hospital staff, put me front and center, and then see what happens.”

“That doesn’t sound very safe, Will,” Hannibal replies, grabbing their now plated food and gesturing for Will to follow him to the dining room. “Even if this killer does attend, and wishes to engage you, he will hardly do so in front of an audience. This puts you in danger.”

Nodding, Will takes his seat, placing the wine glasses he had grabbed in their respective places.

“I doubt very much Jack cares about that. I’ve not exactly been performing the way he wants me to, thus far. As far as he’s concerned, as long as there’s a chance the killer will attend that ball, that’s good enough for him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s as obsessed with this guy as he is with the Ripper.”

Smiling slightly, Hannibal begins to eat, gesturing for Will to do so, also.

“Oh!” Will exclaims, suddenly realizing something horrible – as far as Will’s concerned, anyway. “I’ll have to wear that tight opera suit again, won’t I? This is going to be that kind of party, isn’t it?”

Had he not had a delicious plate of food in front of him, Will is sure he would have banged his head against the table out of frustration.

“Well, Will, if you truly hate it, I’m sure Roberto wouldn’t mind measuring you for a new one?” Hannibal asks in a deceptively calm tone of voice, one eyebrow raised.

“I hate you,” Will groans, trying and failing not to laugh at the (truly terrifying) idea, and throwing his napkin at Hannibal’s face.

He catches it – because of course he has fast reflexes – smiling wider, before reaching over to re-position the napkin in Will’s lap.

 

For the second time in a matter of weeks, Will finds himself in an uncomfortably tight-fitting suit, surrounded by the sort of snobby people he usually avoids at all costs.

Jack is stood a few feet away, conversing with a put-out Chilton. He clearly doesn’t like his event being hijacked, let alone allowing his staff to be in attendance. Will can see his disdain for these people in every line of his face, brows furrowing every time he spots another one of them.

Only about two thirds of the BSHCI staff has actually turned up to the event, but Jack is nonetheless optimistic. He had wanted Will to stand in the middle of the big hall, literally on display, but Will had outright refused.

Instead, he has secluded himself into a small corner of the hall, sipping on whisky to pass the time. As his mind drifts, occasionally focusing on some of the guests when they momentarily peak his interest, Will finds himself wishing Hannibal were here. The man would no doubt be wonderful company, and would thus keep Will from dying of boredom, which feels entirely likely tonight.

Will knows he should examine his feelings about Hannibal more carefully, should be cautious not to be getting as close as he has been, but he can’t seem to help himself. In a world where every mind feels like a strong current pulling him further down the river, Hannibal is the piece of wood that’s keeping him afloat.

It’s a stupid analogy, he knows, but true nonetheless. Which is probably why, twenty minutes later, he nearly faints from relief at spotting the man himself walking towards him. His suit is as ostentatious as always, a three-piece, jade colored monstrosity that Will, damn it all, finds as charming as the man himself. What he does not expect, however, is to see none other than Alana Bloom on Hannibal’s arm.

Will’s gut clenches tight at the sight, and he wracks his brain to think of an instance wherein either party might have hinted at being in some kind of relationship. He can’t think of any.

“Will!” Alana greets him warmly, hand squeezing his arm briefly. “How are you? I hope you’ve not been stood alone in this corner all night, have you?”

“I– I…” Will’s not sure what to say. His mind’s so frazzled, he’s not even sure he can lie proficiently. “I didn’t know you were coming – I mean, you either, Hannibal… why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

The following ‘and take me with you’ is thankfully unspoken, but Will has a feeling Hannibal hears it nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, Will, I thought it would be implied,” Hannibal smiles, hand still on the small of Alana’s back. “This is a charity ball, after all, one of many Chilton invites his peers to attend, loathe though I am to call the man as such.”

“Hannibal!” Alana gasps, good-naturedly, slapping his arm as she tries to conceal a laugh. “Anyway, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me gentlemen. I need to make my rounds. I’ll see you later, Will, okay?”

She smiles at the both of them, eyes lingering on Hannibal in a very telling manner, before leaving them alone.

Will swallows, realizing his throat is suddenly quite dry, and quickly makes his way over to the refreshments. He knows, without looking, that Hannibal is following. After taking a few sips of the water he picks up, he turns to Hannibal, finding the man already looking at him in a knowing way.

Before Hannibal can open his mouth, no doubt to ask a question Will’s not ready to answer yet, Will subtly points his head to the center of the room. A few couples have begun dancing, swaying to the unobtrusive music playing in the background of the general chatter of the room.

“I didn’t think people actually danced at these things,” Will snorts, eyeballing the elderly couple that seem to be leading the pack.

“Dancing is but a means of expressing oneself,” Hannibal replies, absent-mindedly straightening Will’s tie. “It can be quite the stress-reliever, also. You, yourself, appear to be under quite a lot of stress right now, Will.”

Hannibal pauses, head tilted, as though he’s just had a thought.

“Come, dance with me, Will.”

He holds out a hand to Will, who stares down at it in shock. When he had changed the topic, he hadn’t expected to be faced with yet another horribly awkward situation.

“Er, Hannibal, sorry to disappoint you, but… I’m _not_ going to be dancing tonight.”

“I’m sorry to inform you, dear Will, that you _are_.” Hannibal responds with a wide smile, outstretched hand reaching over to grab Will’s own.

“Yeah, no, not happening, Hannibal,” Will retorts hotly, trying and failing to extract his hand when the man begins to gently lead him towards the other dancers.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs quietly, leaning in close to Will. “Would you truly deny me such a simple request? After all I have done for you, am still trying to do for you?”

“Really, Hannibal, emotional blackmail? I expected better from you,” Will sighs, allowing himself to be dragged, so as not to cause a scene.

“One must do what is necessary to achieve one’s aims, Will,” Hannibal’s tone is smug, clearly sensing Will’s defeat.

More dancers are joining the throng as they speak, but Will has a feeling they’ll hardly be blending into the crowd, if Chilton’s open-mouthed stare is any indication.

“Hannibal…” Will huffs, moving to grab Hannibal’s shoulders when the older man’s hands latch onto his waist.

“For one thing, I _can’t_ dance, and for another, this is probably a bad idea. We’re supposed to be luring a killer, not– not _shocking the masses_.”

“Why not do both?”

At Will’s annoyed expression, Hannibal grows somber.

“Will. I can teach you if it’s really such an issue. I have missed so much of your upbringing, that even this one small opportunity to teach you something would be an honor. Please.”

And really, Will has no defenses against a sincere request like that.

He knows in his head that he’d begun his search, all those months ago, without any intention of forming an emotional bond to his biological father. But time, and exposure to Hannibal, seems to have worn him down. What’s a simple dance, in the face of Hannibal’s happiness?

“Fine,” Will pouts, attempting to mimic Hannibal’s steps.

The man murmurs pointers throughout their dance, occasionally tightening his hold on Will’s hips to move him where he wants him. And surprisingly… it’s almost fun. If Will focuses only on Hannibal, rather than the hundreds of people around them, they could almost be back in Hannibal’s living room, just the two of them.

When the song they’ve been dancing to comes to an end, Will finally looks up from his feet. Hannibal’s eyes are dark, and happy, as he leads Will away from the dancing crowd. A thrum of _something_ courses through Will’s chest at the sight, but he’s quickly distracted from the sensation when he spots Alana coming towards them.

She looks far from the glowing picture of happiness she’d been earlier, face flushed dark pink.

“Hannibal, Will, I need the both of you to come with me, _now_.”

Frowning, Will follows behind her as she leads them onto an adjoining balcony, waiting for the two of them to cross the doorway before she all but slams the door shut.

“ _What_ … was _that_ , exactly?”

Frown growing, Will turns to Hannibal, expecting him to have the appropriate answer. Maybe this is a lovers’ spat?

“Alana, I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?” Hannibal asks, concern in both his voice and expression. “Are you alright?”

“Am _I_ alright? Hannibal, what are you thinking? You should know better than to get into a relationship with a patient! That sort of imbalance of power can be toxic. Or are you going to pretend we didn’t all see what just happened out there?”

“ _What_ –” Will exclaims, but is quickly cut off by Hannibal.

“ _Alana_!” Hannibal sounds both scandalized and hurt, and Alana looks momentarily contrite, before her expression hardens. “Firstly, Will is certainly not my patient. I have never said nor hinted as much to you before, so I would appreciate it if you would not so publically denounce my personal ethics. Secondly, whatever relationship Will and I may or may not have is certainly no concern of yours–”

“I’m his son!” Will can’t help but blurt out (for the second time), figuring it’s better to just rip this bandage right off. If Alana and Hannibal really are in some sort of relationship, or were looking to be in one, Will doesn’t want to get in the way of that. It hurts to think about, if he’s being honest, but he has no right to be a hindrance to their happiness.

“You’re… _what_?” Alana gasps, gaze jumping from one of them to the other, rapidly, in utter shock.

Hannibal sighs, as though long-suffering, before concisely explaining their predicament to Alana.

“… and tonight I had simply wanted to help Will relax a little, by dancing with him, though perhaps that was an ill choice. Had I known you would have such a… _visceral_ reaction to it, I might have reconsidered.”

Were she not such a well put-together person, Will’s sure Alana would be shell-shocked right now. Instead, she simply flattens her hands against the front of her dress, eyes slightly wide.

“Right, that’s– right,” She murmurs, staring at the two of them as though they’ve grown second heads. “Oh, god, Hannibal, I’m so sorry. Here I am, berating you, when you’ve already got so much on your plate. I’m truly sorry.”

Hannibal just nods serenely at her in response, smiling, and gestures for the three of them to head back inside.

“I’m just… gonna stay out here for a minute,” Will says, when the pair make their way towards the balcony doors. “As _relaxing_ as that dance was, Hannibal, I think I’d like some fresh air. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Alana looks concerned, and more than a little guilty, but Hannibal only nods, eyes latching onto Will’s as he leads Alana away.

Sighing, Will leans forward until he can rest his elbows on the stone of the balcony railing, hoping that the cool evening breeze might leach his oncoming headache away.

“Hello, Mr. Graham.”

The voice speaks so suddenly, and so quietly into Will’s ear, that he jumps, startled.

As soon as Will recognizes that voice behind him, he feels like slapping himself for being so oblivious. His mind swiftly puts all the pieces together, all the clues that had been right in front of his eyes since his trip to the BSHCI. Who else, but the one person that registered as dangerous, could the killer be? Who else would be seeking Will out in the quiet of the balcony, if not the Copycat?

“Matthew. Hello. How can I help you?”

“Did you see my gift?” Matthew asks, hands in the pockets of his surprisingly upscale suit pants. He’s dressed head to toe in black, quite the contrast to how Will saw him last. Like a demon parading as an angel, finally revealing its true colors.

“Yes, I did. Though I must admit it was a little discomfiting to see someone that looks so much like me strung up in those branches.”

“Ah, well, that wasn’t really you, Mr. Graham. Not just you, anyway. It was a message, to _them_ , those people that are after me… but you’re not after me, are you, Mr. Graham?”

“What makes you say that, Matthew?” Will asks, edging along the balcony railing when Matthew struts closer. “What makes you think I’m not hunting you right now?”

“Oh, it was so obvious, Mr. Graham,” Matthew replies, fingertips running across the railing as he follows along after Will. “You _saw_ me, back at the hospital. I know you did. But you didn’t tell anyone. I just knew it, then and there, that you were helping me. Like you’re helping Doctor Gideon. But you can hide behind lies, if you like, for now. I know they’re watching you, too.”

“Who’s watching me?”

“The FBI. This place is crawling with them, but I’m glad I got to see you even if it is. Soon, Mr. Graham, I’ll be ready. And when I am, I’ll come back for you.”

_“Will? Will, you over here? Jack’s calling for you–”_

As the voice comes closer – Beverly Katz, Will thinks, from Jack’s forensics team – Matthew jumps into action. Will’s run out of balcony to back away onto, and Matthew takes full advantage, bending Will over backwards to catch his lips in a startlingly gentle kiss.

Will means to push Matthew away from him, but by that point the damage is done, if Beverly’s slowly tapering voice is any indication.

“Will are you… oh. OH, wow. I’m sorry, I– okay, yep, I’m going. Just, hurry up, Graham, okay?”

As Beverly leaves, Will begins to push Matthew away, his chest firm under Will’s hands. Matthew only pulls away at his own leisure, however, giving Will’s bottom lip a parting bite.

“You… That...”

“Like I said. I’ll be seeing you, Will.”

 

By the time Will makes it back into the hall and over to Jack and co., it’s clear that Beverly did not keep what she saw to herself.

Although Jack and Zeller are frowning at him, and Price and Beverly are grinning, it’s Hannibal’s reaction that Will focuses on. His sire’s expression is blank, and his eyes are fixed on Will’s face. Will’s lips must be swollen from Matthew’s kiss – and bite – if the way Hannibal’s eyes linger on them is any indication. 

“Will,” Jack begins, clearly in rant-mode. “This is hardly the time for–”

“It was the Copycat.”

There is silence in their little corner of the room, before all of Jack’s team seem to erupt at once, all of them speaking over each other.

“ _Who_ was the Copycat?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wait, what, _that dude_?!”

“Stop!” Jack yells, loudly enough that Price literally rocks back on his feet. “You wanna run that by me again, Will?”

Sighing, Will runs a hand across his eyes, shoulders slumping.

“There’s a guy, named Matthew Brown. Works at BSHCI. He seemed… strange, but I didn’t think he was _the Copycat_. Then when he showed up here, it just sort of clicked. He cornered me, and when Katz came to find me, he just… pounced. I can assure you I wasn’t out on that balcony looking to make out with anyone, let alone _him_.”

He turns to Hannibal as he says this, hoping to remove that carefully blank look from his friend’s face.

“And where is he now? Will? _Where is he_?” Jack bellows, causing the guests surrounding them to take notice now, cringing away from their little group.

“I don’t know, he left almost as soon as Beverly did. But you know who he is now, so that’s something, isn’t it?”

Jack begins to bellow orders into his phone, simultaneously waving for Beverly and Price to leave the hall, possibly in pursuit of Matthew.

“It won’t be if he sees us coming,” Zeller snorts, his disdain for Will evident in his tone.

“He won’t,” Will presses, turning to Jack once he ends his call. “That seems to be why he’s so… _interested_ in me. He thinks I deliberately didn’t tell the FBI about him, after seeing him at BSHCI. You can still get him… but I’m off the case, Jack.”

“The hell you are! If this proves anything, it’s that he wants you. We _need_ you on this, Will.”

“And that’s exactly why I can’t be, Jack. _He said he’d come back for me_. I’m sorry, but I don’t need that, okay? I’m a teacher, not a cop or an FBI agent. I don’t need him paying me any more _visits_.”

Jack looks ready to jump down Will’s throat again, but Hannibal starts as though woken from a slumber, defending Will so thoroughly that they are able to leave the hall five minutes later.

 

When they get home – Will longing for the comfort of the bed he has started to think of as _his_ , considering how often he sleeps in it – the look in Hannibal’s eyes is all the warning Will needs to know that whatever is next out of the man’s mouth will certainly not be something Will wants to talk about.

“So, Will–”

“Are you dating Alana?” Will interrupts, all but blurting the question out in a seemingly unstoppable garble of words, desperate to divert the subject.

Hannibal’s eyes are intense as they focus on Will, head tilted just so to tell Will he’s not fooling anyone with a tactic so obvious.  

“…No, I am not,” Hannibal replies calmly, hanging Will’s coat up beside his own.

Will’s exhale of relief at this answer must be obvious, going by the way Hannibal’s eyes are narrowed when he turns back around.

“Will, am I correct in assuming you are attracted to Miss Bloom?”

Will feels his face heat at the question, asked in Hannibal’s overly-polite way. Hiding his eyes, Will shakes his head, silently willing Hannibal to believe him – or at least pretend to.

If the way both of Hannibal’s brows are raised, clearly unimpressed, is any indication, he clearly will not.

“It’s just, the two of you came to the ball together, and the way she looks at you…” Will mumbled, trying to distract Hannibal from his current line of questioning.

“I assure you, that was simply a matter of convenience. Alana has been having some car trouble, so I offered to drive her to the event. Tell me, Will, is it that you fear she does not reciprocate your feelings, or are you simply embarrassed to discuss such things with me?”

The unexpectedness of the question, as well as Hannibal suddenly pulling Will into the kitchen when he’d been heading straight upstairs, puts Will out of sorts enough to answer honestly.

“I… the former, I suppose. She’s never indicated that she- I mean, _I_ would never pursue her anyway. I- I haven’t really done very much dating as is, to be honest.”

“Oh? Is there any particular reason?” Hannibal’s gaze is piercing and knowing, eyes seeming sharp enough to slice into Will’s brain and grab the answer for himself.

“Not really. Nothing beyond the obvious, I mean. I find women are really very good at telling when something’s wrong with you, so there’s that.”

Hannibal tuts at Will, clearly admonishing him for thinking anything was ‘wrong’ with him – they’d had many a conversation about how _great_ Hannibal thinks Will’s ‘gift’ is – as he placed a small plate of cake on the table, along with two forks.

“Have you considered dating men? Personally, I find them to be altogether more manageable to date than women.”

Will blushes at the question; it reminds Will of their own ill-fated brush with dating, as it were, though Hannibal clearly misreads Will’s expression.

“Oh. I apologize, Will, are you straight? I admit I had not thought so, but I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“No, no it’s not that. I mean, I’m not straight. I don’t care about gender, really, so I guess that makes me some variation of bisexual?” Will mumbles around his fork, near moaning at the rich texture of the cake he knows Hannibal had ordered earlier that day.

“Hmm, perhaps pansexual? No matter. My point remains – have you dated men?” Hannibal asks as he finally forks a portion of the cake into his own mouth, having been content to watch Will eat until now.

“I- well, I haven’t really dated anyone,” Will says around a yawn, automatically covering his mouth with his hand after much reminding from Hannibal in the past. “Like I said, I’m not the best at it. There were a few date- _like_ things in college, but they never progressed past maybe an hour or so of conversation so, you know-”

Will stops speaking abruptly at the fleeting look he sees on Hannibal’s face, an odd mix of awed and dark, before it vanishes behind the usual blank mask that Will has come to know so well.

“What is it?” Will asks, licking his fork clean.

“I- forgive me, Will, but you make it sound as though… was I your first?” He asks all of a sudden, the quickness of the question belying an impatience Will has not come to expect of Hannibal. “Your _first_ kiss?”

Annnd, Will is blushing again. Ducking his head, Will grabs their empty plate and cutlery, moving over to the sink ostensibly to wash the dishes, but really just to hide his face from Hannibal. How much more embarrassing will tonight get?

“Well, you see… well... _Yes_ , okay? But, I mean, it’s not a big deal really, is it? We talked about it. It doesn’t matter, if that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, I guess I should be more concerned that the only sexual contact I’ve had so far has been with either my biological father or a serial killer, but honestly I’m not that surprised with the way my life has been going thus far.”

Turning back around, silently cursing himself all the while for babbling nervously, the last thing Will expects to see is a micro-expression of anger on Hannibal’s face. Why is he so- oh, god, Will had mentioned Matthew! After all his effort to avoid this conversation.

“So he truly did kiss you then? Enough so that it warranted Agent Katz’s sordid retelling, not to mention the extent to which your lips had swollen. Tell me, Will, did you enjoy it? I can’t imagine any other reason why it took you so long to come back to me.”

The absurdness, not to mention the suddenness of the question, puts Will on the defensive.

“Did I _enjoy_ being kissed by Matthew Brown? Hannibal, what even are you trying to imply? And, no, is the answer to your question. I did not enjoy being crowded up against and kissed and bitten, any more than I enjoyed it when you did it!”

It’s only the sharp, sudden blankness on Hannibal’s face, the twitching of his fingers at his sides, that warn Will he might have over-stepped.

“I- god, Hannibal, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I mean, I did mean obviously that I didn’t want to kiss you either, but clearly those two situations were _very_ different. Sorry. God, I think I should just go to bed before I say anything else I regret.”

Will turns around to do just that, but Hannibal’s gentle clasping of his elbow stops him.

“Please, Will, wait. _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset, but you must understand my concern, hmm? Mr. Brown got very close to you, _twice_ now it seems, and yet I hadn’t heard his name until just today. I thought we could tell each other anything.”

 _Oh, like you told me about going to the ball with Alana_ , Will thinks uncharitably. He turns around in Hannibal’s hold, right hand coming up to hold onto the hand on his arm.

“I promise, I really didn’t think too much of him. He was just a strange orderly, putting on a lisp, pretending to be something he wasn’t. It was only when we were on the balcony that I could really _see_ him for what he was.”

“And he kissed you then? Bit you, you said?” Hannibal’s free hand comes up to glide a thumb across Will’s chin, eyes focused on Will’s lips to an uncomfortable degree. Will gently pulls out of Hannibal’s hold, that same frisson of _something_ from earlier returning with a vengeance.

“Yes. He thought I was helping him. He only kissed me when Katz started calling for me – bit my lip when I tried to lean away from him. That’s all it was, Hannibal.”

Hannibal watches Will for a moment more, eyes searching. He must find whatever truth he’s looking for in Will’s tired but earnest eyes, for he finally moves aside so Will can go to bed. Which he does, sighing quietly, and tired to the bone.


	6. All In Good Time

Hannibal waits an hour before he allows himself to go to Will’s room.

Quietly pushing the door open, he moves with silent feet into the darkness of the bedroom. His nostrils flare, pupils no doubt dilating at Will’s scent, already suffusing the room through his sweat.

There he is. His beautiful boy.

Hannibal stands at the head of the bed, eyes ravenous on Will’s sleeping face. He cannot believe he’s spent so many years without _this_.

A face more delicate and lovely than Botticelli’s Venus could ever hope to be, eyes a color he’d once believed he’d never see again. And best of all, his _mind_ , exquisitely open and fascinating.

Oh, but the things he would do to the boy’s mother, given half the chance... Just the thought of her now fills Hannibal with such immense anger – a depth of feeling he had thought himself impartial to by now.

But of course his wonderful Will would inspire such feelings within him. Hannibal trails his fingertips over Will’s brow, careful not to caress too hard, no matter his baser urges. _How did I live my life before this?_

At first, Hannibal can admit to having had less than noble intentions where Will was concerned, too caught up in the boy’s abilities and what Hannibal might convince him to do. But now, Will is all he can think about. A piece of himself living outside of his body, magnificent in his potential. Perfect and sweet and Hannibal’s.

All in good time.

Although Hannibal is anxious to put his plans into action, he knows he must remain cautious. He has not lived so long, doing what he does, by acting recklessly.

His fingers hover over Will’s cupid’s bow, noting the slight swell that still graces his lips.

His lip curls in a grimace, fists curling at the thought of some lesser being daring to touch what is his. Matthew Brown will have to be dealt with, amusing murders or no.

Not to mention Will’s apparent feelings for young Miss. Bloom…

Will makes a small sound of distress in his sleep, face curling towards Hannibal’s palm. His small puffs of breath are warm on Hannibal’s skin, and he gives into the temptation to hold his son’s face in his hands.

These last few weeks have been exceptionally fruitful for Hannibal. Time and exposure to Hannibal’s presence and touch has softened Will considerably, to the point where he no longer holds himself so stiffly or guards his expressions as carefully.

He holds nothing back, his darling boy, with those he trusts. And he has come to trust Hannibal above all.

Leaning down, Hannibal keeps his eyes on Will’s closed eyelids as he lightly presses his lips against Will’s, chasing away the taste of anything but himself.

Then, straightening, Hannibal quietly departs from the room, shutting the door softly behind him.  


	7. The Chesapeake Ripper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness me, what a fuck fest. Pardon my french, lovely readers, but I've had a horrid few weeks. Suffice it to say, I finally have my laptop back (yay!) and have had a chance to edit chapter seven. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> This is where it really gets interesting, imo. I've been reading through the upcoming chapters and ngl, even I'm excited. 
> 
> And seriously, thank you for sticking with me - I have been getting your messages :) <3

The majority of the next morning – _and_ afternoon – are filled with countless meetings with Jack and his FBI team. They take Will’s statement, then take it again and _again_ , only relenting when all avenues of interrogation are seen to. It’s the most irritating day of Will’s life so far, softened only by the promise of a quiet dinner with Hannibal later that day.

He’s walking towards his car in the parking lot when a flash of light halts him in his tracks, momentarily blinding him.

“Sorry about that,” a clearly unrepentant voice called out to him. “Wanted to get Quantico in the back, but I didn’t think you’d pose for me.” 

“Freddie Lounds,” Will huffs, pulling his bag strap higher up on his shoulder as he shuffles past her. “Leave me alone.”

“Why? Scared I’ll ask about your serial killer lover?”

Will thought about ignoring her. She was a vulture, picking up the scraps of humanity that the monsters left behind, feeding on anything she could get her claws into. But the only way for her to have known about what happened between Will and Matthew would be if someone in the team told her. A leak like that could cost them lives, if she decided to print everything she might come to know. 

“And who,” Will swiveled to face her, nearly knocking into her she was stood so close, “ _exactly_ , told you that lie?”

“About The Copycat being your lover, you mean?” she asked with wide eyes, as though innocently enquiring.

“ _Yes_ ,” Will replied through gritted teeth, an already irritating day growing even more so with every second in Lounds’ unsurprisingly aggravating presence.

“Well, we both know it’s not a lie, Will. I have a reliable source claiming you and The Copycat were caught in a, shall we say, passionate embrace at the charity ball last night. Care to comment?”

She suddenly lifts a small recorder towards Will’s face, a small red light blinking lazily on its head.

Will bats it away angrily, more than a little glad to see it fall from her grasp and land hard on the concrete below them. He hopes it breaks. 

“Whatever you think you know, Ms. Lounds, you don’t,” Will says gruffly, stepping closer as she bends to pick up her recorder. “And if you know what’s best for you, you _will_ drop this. Or you might not like the consequences.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Graham?” She asks, smirking, holding up her recorder again, that stupid red light blinking steadily on. Of course. “I mean, should I have expected any different from Quantico’s resident psycho?”

This was clearly a mistake, Will thinks, tightening his fingers on his bag strap until his knuckles whiten. He wants so badly to give into the urge to hit her, to tighten his fingers around her pale throat instead of his bag, but he won’t. He’s spent too many years curbing those urges to give into them now over _Freddie Lounds_ of all people. 

“Okay,” Will shoves past her, moving towards his car again. “We’re done. Corner me again and I’ll get a restraining order.”

Freddie waits until Will is sliding into his car, his back to her, before calling out to him again.

“Be sure to read my next article, Will! It’ll be a real _eye-opener_!” 

 

By the time Will pulls into Hannibal’s driveway, Freddie Lounds is the last thing on his mind. Rather, all he can think about is… _Hannibal_.

Will’s not sure what to make of his sire sometimes. They’ve come so far together, since that first heated meeting, and yet some of Hannibal’s actions Will can’t ignore. Not forever, at least, though Will’s certainly tried to blind himself to it.

Hannibal _likes_ him. In _that_ way. Still.

At first Will was convinced it was just fatherly affection whenever Hannibal chucked him under the chin or slipped an arm around him, but the touches are lasting longer, holding tighter. Far more intimate than Will prefers.

Though he’s not done much more than that, Will knows now that Hannibal _wants_ to. It’s a disturbing thought, to say the least, lessened only by the knowledge that Hannibal would never try anything without Will’s explicit consent.

As he makes his way up to Hannibal’s door, his own shiny new key at the ready, Will ponders his options.

He could confront Hannibal. Lay it all out on the table, so to speak, and face the inevitable backlash of that conversation. Or… he could carry on ignoring it. So long as nothing comes of it, which of course nothing _will_ , it doesn’t do anyone any harm now does it? 

Will hangs his coat and other accessories - all recent gifts from Hannibal - up in the entryway closet, noticing that Hannibal’s own are noticeably absent. Perhaps he’s running late.

Will makes his way to the kitchen, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Though he’s no chef by any means, after all this time in Hannibal’s kitchen Will at least knows how to prep food prior to cooking.

As expected, he finds Hannibal’s handy little recipe rolodex open on the same recipe Hannibal had told Will about that morning.

Will absentmindedly looks through the ingredients listed, mentally recounting where in Hannibal’s pantry Will saw them last. He needs to get a handful of different vegetables and spices, and to get some meat out of the freezer to thaw.

As orderly as Hannibal keeps his things, it doesn’t take Will very long to find everything he’s looking for.

Bounty overflowing in his arms, he carefully makes his way towards the door. Two steps in, however, he quickly starts to lose his hold on a tomato and dashes towards a counter to his left to try and stop it from splatting onto the ground. Hannibal hates wastefulness.

It might have stopped there, Will thinks, had he not then lost control of the potatoes. One after another they roll onto the counter, subsequently knocking a small bottle of (no doubt incredibly expensive) vinegar onto the ground.

“Oh, _fuck_ …” Will mutters, getting to his knees to pick up the pieces of glass. He’s already got the bigger shards in his palm when he notices the vinegar seems to be _seeping_ _into_ the wood paneling.

Will pauses, confused, trying to remember if Hannibal had ever mentioned a wine cellar of some sort. No, Will’s sure he hasn’t. So what’s down there? 

Before he even really considers the consequences, Will’s spare hand is roving over the wood, trying to find any discrepancies in the flooring.

 _There_. A small hand-hold on the floor under the counter.

Brushing aside the small shards of glass still remaining on the ground, Will pulls on the latch until a section of wood pulls away from the floor.

Will can just barely make out a stairway leading down into a cellar, and pauses for half a second of uncertainty before his curiosity wins out over his wariness. He gets to his feet, leaving the glass he had in his hand on the counter.

The stairs aren’t particularly steep, but Will still clings to the railing on his way down, eyes adjusting to the mostly dark surroundings.

Dim lights adorn the sides of the staircase, brightening the entryway to Will’s ever curious gaze. He spies multiple boxes stacked about, and metal piping overhead, but nothing else of note.

As he makes his way further into the cold room, the lights have very little effect, submerging Will in complete darkness. He reaches out hesitantly with his hands, trying to find a light switch, but all his fingers manage to catch on are ceiling-long swathes of plastic sheeting.

Shoving past these, Will’s fingers finally catch on a wooden beam, and he flicks on the light switch he finds there, eyes momentarily blinded by the light.

When Will’s eyes finally adjust to the light, he finds himself wishing he was blind once more.

This… this cannot be possible. Not this. Anything but this.

A woman - one Will will later recall is called Mrs. Stanwick - hangs suspended from the ceiling, two meat hooks speared under her collarbones.

She is naked, in a decidedly humiliating way, her sagging and flabby flesh on full display. Her eyes are wide open and unseeing, drooping in their sockets, and her mouth is stuffed full of coriander and yellow hyacinths. Incisions in her chest and side indicate organ removal- _and doesn’t all that sound familiar?_

God, it all makes a horrible kind of sense. Hannibal fits the profile to a T: it may as well be based on him. Intelligent, history of medical practice, a love of the arts. Hannibal took Will to see the damn _opera_.

 _Hannibal_ is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Will’s only just realizing what an absolute shit-show his life is, or will surely very soon become, when a queer chill winds its way up his spine.

Turning slowly, barely daring to breathe, Will spots Hannibal - his goddamn _father_ , Christ, that’s only just hitting home - at the other end of the hallway.

Hannibal is more still than Will’s ever seen him, gaze blank and focused intensely on Will. He doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to be breathing either, just watches Will. 

A second, maybe two, of intense eye-contact and then before Will’s eyes can properly process it Hannibal has darted to the side to turn off the lights, disappearing immediately into the darkness.

Will gasps quietly, gags on what little spit remains in his mouth, and internally curses himself for leaving those sharp pieces of glass on the counter.

He backs up a few steps, belatedly remembering the body in that direction and therefore inhaling loudly in the silence as he crashes into cold flesh.

He rights himself immediately, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he looks this way and that, trying to see where Hannibal is hiding.

He has only a second worth of warning, that same chill making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, before a strong arm winds tight around his waist. A second arm follows the first to constrict his throat, and suddenly Will can’t breathe at all.

He struggles futilely for a few desperate moments, nails scraping Hannibal’s wrists and hands raw, trying with little success to jab at Hannibal’s eyes. And then, inevitably, Will’s world grows ever darker, Hannibal’s deep voice murmuring soothingly into his ear all the while. 


	8. In The Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is likely to be the last Hannibal POV you’ll see in a chap, lest I drastically change later chaps. Will is in for a big surprise this chap, I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Also, the chapter's title is supposed to reflect Will finding out the truth, seeing everything in the light after being in darkness so to speak. But it's funny to me because this chapter is set at night. Anyway, on we go :)

Straightening his tie in the mirror, combing his hair, pulling miniscule tufts of lint from his coat. A daily routine undisturbed by the drama of the previous evening.

Hannibal allows himself a small smirk of amusement as he leaves his house, mind still lingering on the treasure he has secreted away inside.

As anticipated, some hours after midday, Hannibal’s phone begins to buzz in his pocket. Apologising to the already blubbering Franklyn, Hannibal moves over to his desk to take the call.

“Hello, Alana. Is everything alright? I’m with a patient.” Though his expression remains impassive, he makes his voice hushed and worried.

“Hannibal! I know, I’m sorry, but this is urgent. I’m with Jack. Have you seen Will by any chance?” Predictable Alana, already near-hysterical with worry over dear Will.

He modulates his tone to now include a hint of fear, supposed anxiety over Will taking over his normally restrained persona. “Will? No, we planned to meet for dinner tonight. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. Why, has something happened?”

“No…” Alana pauses, clearly deliberating. “No, not yet. We don’t really know. He was supposed to head to Quantico this morning for further interviews but he didn’t show. I went to his house and it was empty, just the dogs and their empty bowls. We’re not sure what to think, Hannibal.”

No, indeed they’re not. At least not until Hannibal has steered them to the correct conclusions.

“I don’t understand. Will would not leave his dogs, if he were to go anywhere. Where was he last seen?”

“Leaving Quantico yesterday evening. He had a run in with Freddie Lounds of all people, but she’s not talking. I really don’t know what to think, Hannibal. This doesn’t look good. There are people saying- well. Have you read Freddie Lounds’ latest article?”

Considering the amount of venom that has laced Alana’s tone, Hannibal can only assume it will be an invigorating read, whatever it is the illustrious Ms. Lounds has written.

“No, I have not. A moment, Alana, if you would?”

Hannibal waits until she hums her approval, before turning around to face Franklyn, phone now muffled against his shoulder.

“I am very sorry to have to do this, Franklyn, but there is an emergency. May I cut today’s session short? Please, if you will.” Before Franklyn can do more than gape at the question, Hannibal opens his office door, ushering the stuttering man out.

“Now, let me see…” Hannibal murmurs, seating himself at his desk and opening his ipad. He clicks open the bookmarked Tattle Crime link, the latest article popping up conveniently for Hannibal’s perusal.

Invigorating is one word to describe what Hannibal reads. _Rude_ , would be equally appropriate.

“Surely no one at Quantico has given any of this nonsense any credence?” Hannibal asks, eyes lingering on a particularly becoming photo of his William at the ball. “Will would never… _elope_ with Matthew Brown.”

“Well, _we_ might know that, but the masses here at Quantico seem to be siding with Lounds. Since Will’s gone AWOL, I’ve not been able to talk to anyone with an ounce of sense in their heads!”

Alana breathes heavily for a moment, which Hannibal allows, curious to see how she had planned for this conversation to play out.

“I’m sorry. God, Hannibal, I don’t mean to unload on you but I’ve had a terrible morning. And you! I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind, what with Will being your…” She quiets her voice, tone almost pitying. “…your _son_. Do you want me to come over? I was planning to do this in person as is, but seeing Will’s dogs hungry and alone just really got to me, I guess. I’ve left them with his neighbour for now. So, should I?”

“Yes, thank you, Alana, that would be much appreciated,” Hannibal murmurs, mind already processing the multiple avenues his future relationship with Miss. Bloom could take. “I think in such troubling times, we really should stick together.”

 

 

When Will wakes, for a moment all he can do is stare up at the cream-coloured ceiling. It’s the same ceiling he’s been waking up to for weeks now, the one in the guest room of Hannibal’s home.

 _Hannibal_.

Will rushes to sit up, only to groan and lay down again, head heavy. The clock on the wall reads 10 o’clock, but Will has no idea if that’s an AM or a PM.

He stumbles slowly to his feet, rushing over to the window before his higher brain functions stop him. For one thing, he’s on the second floor of the building and doesn’t need a broken ankle on top of everything else, and for another, it’s probably locked. Will pushes experimentally at the old-fashioned window latch and, as expected, it doesn’t budge.

Outside, all is still and quiet. It’s dark, so that answers the time question. Will peers through the glass, squinting at the path below, but to no avail. No one is outside.

Will makes his way down the stairs as quietly as possible, almost tripping when his feet get caught up in the long pant legs of Hannibal’s pajamas.

Eyes darting this way and that, Will stumbles through the kitchen, as hyper-alert and as focused as his dizzy mind can manage to be.

The pantry door, when he comes across it, remains alluringly open. Will darts his eyes towards it once, twice, cursing himself for ever having gone in there.

But then, from the outside it looks innocent enough. Clean, well-kept, well-stocked. Just a pantry.

Looking in, there isn’t even a hint of the mess Will had made- was it yesterday? Today?

Edging closer, Will notices that the same bottle of vinegar that started all this, that Will smashed to pieces, sits untouched on its counter.

Had he imagined it all? Was he finally going crazy?

Tip-toeing into the pantry, Will is astonished to find all the same vegetables and spices he had gathered were back in their original places. Untouched. Or at least they looked as much.

Knees thudding quietly to the ground, Will scrambled under the counter, fingers searching for the latch. There! It was still there, he couldn’t have imagined it all, if it was still there. Could he have?

This wouldn’t be the first time Will had hallucinated. Nor the first time his hallucinations were violent in nature. He’s sure Hannibal would have a lot to say about this, about his job bleeding into his psyche until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

Prying the door open, Will got to his feet, shivering from the sudden cold as he descended the stairs.

Only this time it wasn’t dark. Or quiet.

Classical music of some sort played from unseen speakers, quite loud though Will hadn’t been able to hear it above ground.

The further he walked, the more Will could see of what was beyond the plastic sheeting.

Hannibal stood tall, with his back to Will, strong shoulders and arms working on something in front of him.

There, on a metal slab not unlike those Will saw in morgue labs, was the body of a woman - the same woman from before.

Hannibal was sawing through the bones of her right wrist, her left already cut off and put aside. The hands, the hands were important. _She had dared to touch that which didn’t belong to her, her filthy swine fingers wrapped around a prize far too precious for the likes of her_ -

“I was beginning to wonder when you would wake,” Hannibal says suddenly, snapping Will out of his daze.

He backs up a step, realizing he’d walked nearly up to Hannibal’s elbow.

Hannibal turns to face Will, placing the woman’s right hand beside the left before removing his gloves. He reaches out a hand towards Will, but Will flinches, backing away rapidly.

“I thought I’d imagined it. That I was going crazy. But it’s true. It’s _you_ , after all this time…” Will’s voice breaks on a hastily swallowed sob.

“Will.” Hannibal sounds chiding, viper fast hand reaching forward to drag Will back into reach. “Now, now, no need for any of that. If anyone, it is I who should be angry, no? You very nearly ruined all of my plans, coming down here before it was time. But then, I’ve always admired your ability to surprise me.”

He brushes gentle fingers over Will’s eyebrow, pushing his fringe out of his eyes.

When Will tries to move away again, Hannibal’s fingers tighten threateningly on Will’s arm, dark eyes warning Will to behave.

Thinking quickly, Will shoves his knee into Hannibal’s crotch, as hard as he can manage. Hearing Hannibal grunt roughly, his hold on Will slackening, Will turns immediately and takes off in a mad sprint towards the stairs.

He pushes through the plastic, kicks boxes out from underfoot, nearly stumbling in his haste.

There is a moment, when Will’s hand catches hold of the railing, feet thudding up the stairs, that he really believes he will make it.

But then a heavy hand wraps around his ankle and pulls him hard onto his back.

Lightheaded and gasping from the pain of landing on the uneven terrain of the stairway, Will can only watch, in a detached sort of way, as Hannibal drags him to the floor by his foot.

He tries to kick out, to hurt Hannibal, but his aim is off.

Hannibal stares down at him with something akin to bemusement, before sighing and casually bending Will’s big toe backwards until he hears a sharp _crack_.

“There now. That should curb any desire to abscond in the night. Are you going to behave, William?”

Tears pooling in his eyes, but not spilling, Will nods mutely. His toe is throbbing and every small movement of Hannibal’s hand on his ankle jostles it further, sparking more pain. From the look in Hannibal’s eye as he lets Will’s foot drop unceremoniously to the ground, he knows it.

“Come. I have something to show you.”

Hannibal leaves Will to get up on his own as he moves back towards the other end of the cellar. Without a single glance at the body - now sans hands - on the metal table, he opens a steel door to the right that Will can’t remember seeing before.

Hobbling to his feet, Will hesitates before following after Hannibal, unable to even put his left foot completely on the ground because of the pain.

The door, when Will reaches it, contains a room. It’s been painted completely in white, with scant furniture inside; a reasonably sized bed, a desk, and a small section cordoned off with a toilet and sink.

Seeing these latter furnishings is what cements in Will’s mind Hannibal’s intention.

“No, no…” Will backs up, regretting his earlier surrender. Nine more broken toes would be better than _this_. “Hannibal, please, no.”

Hannibal smiles at Will, coming closer to grasp his hands and pull him into the room.

“ _Yes_ , Will. But you needn’t worry. This is only a temporary precaution. You won’t be in here forever.”

He pulls Will to sit beside him on the duvet with an iron grip, settling them so their legs and hips press close together. He releases Will’s hands, only to cup his face, thumbing away what few tears have leaked down Will’s cheeks despite his efforts to hold them in.

“I am so glad you came to me, Will. More so than I can say,” Hannibal murmurs, hands moving to grip Will’s shoulders. “You should have been with me from the start, but no matter. I’m here now. I’m going to take care of you, my sweet boy.”

The way Hannibal is looking at Will tells him all he needs to know about the sort of _care_ Hannibal intends to provide, his fingers trailing down Will’s arms making him shiver violently.

Will shoves Hannibal’s hands from his body, leaning as far back as he dares.

“I don’t care what you tell yourself, but what you’re doing? Isn’t out of _love_. It’s for your own pleasure. And I’m _never_ going to want you, not like that. No matter how long you keep me down here. _Never_.”

Though he sees no reaction to his vehement statement in Hannibal’s face, his fingers do clench, ever so slightly, before relaxing completely.

An almost smug expression lights up Hannibal’s face, lips stretched into a genuine little smile.

“Very well, Will. I suppose I shall simply have to wait for you to change your mind. We certainly have the time for that, do we not?”

Getting to his feet, Hannibal smooths down the front of his suit. Eyes never leaving Will’s, he walks leisurely towards the heavy-duty door.

“I shall see you tomorrow morning for breakfast, Will. Sleep well.”

He pulls the door shut with a dull bang, followed closely by the sound of a bolt sliding into place.

Alone in the room at last, Will sits staring blankly at the wall for some time. Eventually, he’s pulled from his daze by the distant sound of Hannibal’s music permeating the room through the door.

He looks at the space around him once more, noticing what he hadn’t in his earlier panic. There are books on the desk, fiction and non-fiction alike, from Will’s favourite genres. There’s even an expensive one on fishing lures that Will had told Hannibal about weeks ago.

By the sink are toothbrushes and pastes, all Will’s preferred brands. The bedsheets and duvet are made of the same high thread-count, quality fiber material that Will has complimented Hannibal’s guest room for having.

And on a pillow Will finds a drawing, a portrait, of himself in Hannibal’s office, expression closed off and aggressive. The paper it’s on bears the same initialing at the bottom that Will has seen on Hannibal’s work notebooks.

All of this, all these details. Hannibal has been preparing this room for some time. Perhaps as long as he’s known Will.

This whole time, and this room has been down here waiting for him.

Picking the drawing up, Will stares hard at it for a moment – or perhaps an hour – before scrunching it up in a ball and throwing it at the wall. He watches it fall to the ground on the other side of his new room, and then slumps down on the floor himself.


	9. Good Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope you're well and Happy New Year! 
> 
> I've held onto this chapter for longer than I perhaps should have (September, fyi) and I realise that. I was trying to be too ambitious, perhaps, by posting multiple chapters at once - but, yeah, the next few chaps have more work to be done on them. 
> 
> Anyway, a lot of progress happens in this chapter. I'm excited to see what you think! 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have time :)

The room is white. Will’s tired eyes, blinking heavily on every inward breath, droop further with every passing hour.

He’s never realised how much he hates the colour white before. But he does now, he _rages_ inside at how hideous it is. So blank and closed-off and claustrophobic.

For the first few hours, Will just sits there. Frozen, lost in his mind, trying so hard to just not think at all. But then he notices the walls.

He begins to pace – or limp, more accurately – running his fingers along the smooth surface of the walls, finding no inconsistencies in the thickness of the paint. No cracks, or peeling patches either.

He _hates_ it. The whiteness.

He’s pondering whether Hannibal intended for Will to live in such a blank canvas of a prison, when he hears the bolt on the outside of the door scrape open. Will hadn’t even heard Hannibal walk over.

He scrambles away from the door, toe throbbing sharply when he accidently bangs it against the leg of the desk.

Hannibal, when he appears, looks the same as ever.

Will’s not sure what he expected, since Hannibal hadn’t outwardly changed the last time Will saw him either, but it still grates at Will for some reason. That _he_ should seem so unaffected even now, when Will’s sure he looks like the crazed psychopath Lounds accused him of being. 

He’s wearing his usual morning attire, a cozy maroon jumper and silk striped pajama bottoms. The smell of his aftershave, drifting into the room along with him, tells Will he’s shaved recently. His hair falls over his eyes with an almost boyish charm that Will wants to scoff at.

Instead, he watches with eyes suddenly alert, focused on Hannibal’s face as the man in question moves further into the room. He carries a large tray in one hand, balanced perfectly despite its evident weight, his other reaching behind him to softly shut the door.

“Good morning, darling,”

Will says nothing in response, watching in silence as Hannibal deposits his load on the desk.

“I hope you’re hungry. I may have overdone it this morning, but I wanted our first meal together, as true equals, to be special, Will. It’s the least I could think to do to appease you.”  

And he really _has_ overdone it, Will thinks, stomach grumbling despite his reluctance at the sight of sausages, bacon, eggs, toast and multiple kinds of sliced fruit besides that. And the _coffee_ …

Gulping, Will looks away to the side, defiant in this at least.

A hand comes suddenly into view, sliding past his left cheek onto the nape of his neck, pulling Will back towards Hannibal.

Will lifts a hand to push the taller man away, but instead finds his wrists caught in an unforgiving grip, Hannibal’s fingers tightening as he leads Will to the bed.

He pushes Will back onto the bed, expression playful, before bringing their plates of food over to them, along with plastic cutlery.

And there’s just something about his expression, not just playful now but openly _anticipatory_ , that sets alarm bells ringing in Will’s mind.

He looks down at his plate of food, still steaming and delicious, and tries to piece together Hannibal’s sudden excitement, his design. Has he put something in the food? Has he _always_ put something in the food?

Will’s eyes slowly drift closed as he tries to understand what’s happening, what’s different, pendulum swinging softly in his mind’s eye.

_He waits patiently, silently, always watching his precious lamb through sidelong glances. All in good time. Only, the time is now. He was foolish to think his boy would be anything other than brilliant. And now, finally, after all this time they can be together. As it was always meant to be. And what better start to their union than a delicious meal prepared by a loving hand. Fresh strawberries and apples and watermelon. And the_ meat _. Cooked to perfection, as only the best would do for his boy. Juicy sausages and crisp bacon, with the fat still sizzling. Yes, this is how it was always meant to be, father and son eating the pig that never deserved to breathe the same air in the first place. That dared to lay a finger on his beautiful boy–_

Gasping, Will’s eyes spring open, focused intently on the plate in front of him.

This is it, this is why he removed his victims’ organs. Why bodies would appear sans kidneys or lungs, rather than the more common outer extremities.

“You’re _eating_ them,” Will whispers, looking up into Hannibal’s face in disgust. “You- you’ve been feeding them to everyone, to _me_ -”

Will attempts to stand, to move away from the atrocity that has been so delicately plated for his pleasure, but a hard hand on his elbow halts him.

Hannibal pauses before he speaks, head tilted as he considers Will’s near breakdown like one might a slight nuisance.

“Alana came to see me last night.”

He lets that hang there, no doubt fully aware of the impact this has on Will, who has frozen completely.

“And among other things, she suggested something to me which I feel may be of interest to you, Will,” The hand on Will’s arm trails down to his hand, interlinking their fingers as he speaks. “She is looking for a place to house your dogs, and naturally as your father she thought I might like to take care of them while you’re missing.”

With his other hand, Hannibal reaches down to grasp hold of a link of sausage. Bringing it up to Will’s face, he leans in closer, his voice a whisper as he sets the food against Will’s bottom lip.

“Of course, I said yes. I know how much you love your little canine friends, Will, and I’d hate to deprive you of their company.”

Eyes dark and unyielding, Hannibal waits patiently for Will to react.

As if there is really any choice left for Will.

Opening his mouth, his eyes blazing, Will bites into the sausage. It tastes good, spiced just right as always. A small line of grease drips down to his chin, and Hannibal’s gaze follows that line with a fervent focus.

Thumb stroking along the back of Will’s hand, Hannibal leans in – eyes locked with Will’s own – and slowly licks the line of grease clean, tongue passing over Will’s lips briefly.

Will feels it down to the marrow of his bones. He shudders in his seat, blinking back tears as Hannibal leans away again.

Seeing him smile, feeling the smugness he exudes so openly, makes Will seethe. For a moment, he imagines himself leaning into Hannibal’s space and _biting_ down on the flesh of his neck until all Will can taste is blood.

 

Will wakes and sees white. Again. Always.

At first he had thought he’d never sleep, thoughts of Hannibal and his plans plaguing Will at all hours.

But then suddenly the lights had gone out and Will was submerged in complete darkness.

He’d sat with his back against the hard metal door, adamant to be awake should Hannibal decide to pay him a surprise visit. He thinks he lasted all of five minutes before the allure of mindless rest took ahold of him.

But whenever he wakes up, without fail, he sees white.

He’s searched all corners of the room, all conceivable hideaways, and nothing. No cameras, no motion detectors – not that Will can see at least. And yet somehow Hannibal always seems to know when Will is waking, when to turn on the lights.

Will stares at the ceiling, counting his heartbeats until he hears that all too familiar bolt slide open.

 

Will wakes, his right arm aching.

He’d tried to punch Hannibal yesterday, tried to escape.

Waiting until Hannibal’s back was turned was perhaps unfair of him, but then so was locking your biological son in a basement prison.

The hit had landed, catching Hannibal in the side of his face as he turned to face Will.

Will may as well have tickled him, for all the effect this had on Hannibal.

He’d swung once more, aiming his fist at Hannibal’s face, his eyes on the open doorway behind him.

What happened next was perhaps too fast for Will’s eyes to focus on, because one moment he was facing off against Hannibal and the next he was flat on the ground, his arm pulled up behind him.

One hard _yank_ and Will’s right shoulder had exploded in pain.

When the door opens, Will turns to see Hannibal walking in with a bag of ice under his arm, and a blank expression on his face.

 

Will wakes slowly, the last strings of a pleasant dream filled with barks drifting softly away.

He sits up quietly, hands fisted in his bedsheets, tears threatening to spill.

He misses his house, his ratty t-shirts, and his _dogs_ most of all.  

He misses his _life,_ regret clawing at his heart that he ever thought he could find a home in Hannibal fucking Lecter.

 

Will wakes and there is Hannibal.

He’s sat in what Will has mentally dubbed as _Hannibal’s chair_ , a large cushioned monstrosity that had appeared in the white room one day.

A small leather sketchbook is propped in his lap, his fingers moving swiftly over the page as he watches Will.

This has happened a few times before. Will has woken up and found Hannibal sat across from him, or at the foot of his bed, or leaning right over his face, pencil and book in hand.

At first it had aggravated Will, made him scowl and scoff and turn his back on the older man.

Now, though, after so many days that Will has lost count, Will simply watches him back.

He’s had ample time to think on his predicament, after all. And looking at Hannibal, trying to _see_ him, has helped him understand his motives better.

So Will relaxes in his bed, limpid blue-grey eyes staring deep into the abyss. 

 

Will wakes with a gasp, his sweat making his clothes and hair cling to him uncomfortably. Another nightmare.

He groans, frustrated. Sweating means he needs to shower.

Hannibal had made it clear that Will would have to bathe regularly. At first Will had been elated, his mind focused only on getting out of the white room.

But then came the shower. Which Hannibal had joined him in.

Will had watched, like one might a fast approaching grizzly bear, as piece by piece Hannibal had removed his clothes. When he first stepped into the shower behind Will, Will had turned away quickly, heart jack-rabbiting in his chest.

Hannibal never touched Will in those moments, but Will could always feel his eyes lingering on Will’s body as he hurriedly scrubbed and washed himself. Especially so when Will was washing his hair, swift though he tried to be with the whole process.

With heavy steps, Will walks over to the toilet to take a piss, glad that he (maybe) has his privacy in this at least.

As he brushes his teeth, he hears Hannibal opening the door and stepping inside.

Will spits the last of the toothpaste out of his mouth and turns to face his father. And Hannibal smiles.

 

Will wakes and wishes he’d never wake up again.

Hannibal is sketching again, only this time he’s sat with his back resting against the headboard, long legs stretched out in a line of heat against Will’s right side.

Will blinks up at him and feels a sudden longing for- he’s not even sure anymore. Escape, of course. But maybe also just… _companionship_.

There are times where Will won’t see anyone (Hannibal) for hours on end. Where all Will can do is read the same five books over and over again.

Will knows it’s all a tactic, all part of Hannibal’s plan. Textbook Stockholm syndrome.

It’s working.

Gathering up his courage, Will meets Hannibal’s curious eyes and says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“So, how was your day?”

 

Will wakes, goes about his usual business, and waits for Hannibal.

They had talked late into the previous night, and many nights before that, just light-hearted discussions much like the ones they had _before_.

Hannibal had said he’d let Will choose some new books today from his private library, for which Will was unapologetically excited.

His toe and arm had both long since healed, under Hannibal’s watchful eye, so Will was rearing to stretch his legs.

Eight hundred and eighty heartbeats later, Will hears the bolt scrape open.

When Hannibal steps inside the room and holds out his hand to him, Will takes it.

 

Will wakes and Hannibal isn’t there.

He doesn’t come to give Will breakfast, or lunch. He doesn’t come to sketch Will in the morning, or to sit with him in the afternoon, or even to talk to him during dinner. He doesn’t _bring_ dinner.

After seeing Hannibal day in and day out, like clockwork, this sudden absence throws Will for a loop.

Will doesn’t want to admit it, even in his mind, but he’s worried. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he misses Hannibal.

What could possibly be holding Hannibal up? Was this just another one of his games? Where _was_ he?

Will is only just drifting off to sleep, the lights having switched off as usual, when he hears the bolt slide open.

Will sits up immediately in bed, eyes fixed in the general direction of the door.

The unmistakable silhouette of Hannibal appears briefly in the doorway, before it’s closed softly behind him, Hannibal walking quickly inside.

Will lays back down, heart in his mouth, and hears Hannibal get into bed behind him.

Half a dozen heartbeats later and Will feels a heavy arm drape across his waist, Hannibal’s breath hot on his nape.

Will turns in his arms to face him, peering at Hannibal’s face in the darkness.

“I’m sorry, Will,” he murmurs, softly petting the curls on Will’s head. “I could not be with you today, though I will endeavor to let you know in future should something like this happen again.”

Will doesn’t answer, hesitating briefly before leaning into Hannibal’s warmth, pressing a hand onto Hannibal’s chest.

Will falls fast into a deep sleep, only vaguely hearing Hannibal whispering something about eyes with too much gray in them, like a storm or the sea or…

 

When Will wakes the next morning, it’s to darkness. Also, to Hannibal clinging to him like a limpet.

Will’s face may be tucked into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, but every other point of contact between them is because of Hannibal. Hannibal’s arm under Will’s neck, Hannibal’s lips on Will’s head, Hannibal’s leg between Will’s knees. Even, Will blushes to discover, Hannibal’s hand on Will’s ass.

He gets up soon after this discovery, using the toilet quickly lest Hannibal wake up.

When that doesn’t happen, long moments after Will has gotten ready for his day, Will’s eyes drift over to the door.

It’s stupid to think it, when Hannibal is only feet away and probably faking sleep. But Will can’t help himself.

He tiptoes over to the door, eyes on the motionless shape in the bed. The handle, when Will finally grabs hold of it, is cold. He turns the latch, carefully and slowly, amazed that Hannibal would leave it open. Clearly he’s not quite as clever as he thin-

“Will.”

It’s just one word, murmured quietly from the bed, but it’s enough to stop Will in his tracks, latch still only halfway down.

Will turns his head to meet Hannibal’s eyes in the darkness, unafraid despite the consequences of his previous escape attempts.

Hannibal only sighs in response, like the longsuffering parent he clearly sees himself as, creepy though that sounds given their recent sleeping arrangements.

“Very well, darling. Have at it.”

And with that, he turns over in the bed, as though to go back to sleep.

To say Will is gob-smacked is a gross understatement. He’s bewildered and shocked and suspicious most of all.

Nevertheless, he pushes down the handle to open the door, swinging it immediately open.

The room beyond is dark too, but Will remembers where the light switches are.

When he turns on the lights, he understands Hannibal’s suddenly easy acquiescence.

Tied up before him on a table is a young man in a suit, mouth gagged and visible tear tracks down his cheeks.

“This is what you were doing yesterday?” Will asks, feeling but not hearing Hannibal approach. “Hunting your latest victim?”

“Yes,” Hannibal replied simply, hollow eyes looking dispassionately over the man’s body. “He is a pig. A vile creature that dared to speak ill of you, dear Will.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“That you were a, I quote, ‘feeble minded, psychopathic idiot who was lusting after other killers like a bitch in heat’.” Hannibal sneers, violent anger evident on his face now.

“And why am I here?” Will asks, dread filling him in a sharp contrast to the hope he’d felt moments before.

“Why, to help me put this swine out of his misery, darling.”

With that, Hannibal walks over to a cupboard on his left, opening it to pull out two large plastic coveralls.

Will can already see the pretty, though gruesome picture Hannibal intends to paint. Father and son, killing together. Making _art_.

Will scoffs out loud, derision in every line of his face.

“You can’t _make_ me do it, Hannibal.”

“Make you?” Hannibal repeats, amusement pouring from his eyes. “I have no intention to make you do anything, Will. Whatever happens here will be entirely of your choosing.”

He walks over to Will, pressing the plastic suit and a small serrated knife Will hadn’t noticed into Will’s hands.

“I want you to always follow your urges, Will, whatever it is that they may be,” Hannibal continues, pulling his own plastic suit on. “You should always do whatever you want, without a care for what the rest of the world thinks. I believe you’ll find life much more enjoyable that way.”

Will looks down at the plastic suit, no doubt a perfect fit for Will’s body, and then over at the terrified man on the table.

Finally, he looks at Hannibal, stood beside him in his stupid-looking plastic coveralls.

Will takes one breath, and then another.

And then he puts on the suit.


	10. A Ridiculous, Horribly Plausible Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers.. long time no post. I was honestly so tempted to throw a ‘surprise bitch’ gif in here lol. 
> 
> Anyhow, how are we all? You’ll notice I’ve recently added ‘dubcon’ as a tag, as this chapter includes that. Also the explicit rating will come into play this chapter. Yeah... this is just one big ol' pile of smutty-ness. Hope you enjoy! :)

Will watches Hannibal’s back as he strolls over to the bound man, the knife heavy in Will’s clammy palm.

Hannibal’s back and shoulders begin to move, the powerful muscles in his broad back dancing as he begins his work.

Will feels his fingers periodically tighten around the hilt of his knife, his grip so tight that his fingertips go white and his fingers begin to feel the strain of his restraint. He _wants_ , so very badly, to do something very stupid.

The man lets out a few choked whimpers, followed swiftly by loud, wailing sobs as Hannibal removes his gag. The sound echoes in the cavernous space of the basement, drawing Will in closer to the havoc his father is wreaking on the bound man’s body.

Once Will is again in his line of sight, no longer obstructed by Hannibal’s bulk, the man locks eyes with Will and cries and begs for help… but Will does nothing.

Instead, his gaze is fixated on Hannibal, wholly conscious of the weight of the knife in his hand. He can ignore the crying man, can ignore the sight of skin being delicately peeled from flesh, so long as he carries this knife and has Hannibal in his eyeline.

Eventually, his sire must grow bored of playing on his own. He turns to Will, his face displaying a nonchalance that the wild spark in his eyes belie. He gestures Will forward with his head, uncaring of the specks of blood dotted around his face.

Will hesitates. He doesn’t mean to, but its like the weight of the knife has him rooted to the ground, an anchor meant to save him from the thoughts swirling in his mind.

A minute downturn of Hannibal’s lips quickly rectifies that.

Perhaps it’s basic conditioning, perhaps something more, but the sight of that miniscule displeasure on Hannibal’s face has Will’s body moving forward automatically, before he consciously makes the decision to do so.

As soon as Will is close enough, his feet planting him directly in front of their prey, Hannibal slots himself directly behind Will. Large, strong arms encircle his waist as Hannibal’s head comes to rest upon Will’s left shoulder.

For a second, Will lets himself imagine a delicious scene; reaching up behind himself and just _shoving_ his knife deep into Hannibal’s eye socket, or perhaps into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his jugular. Watching all of that blood pour out of his father, and onto Will, baptising him in that rich flood of red.

He lets himself imagine it, just for a moment, and then he brings himself sharply back to reality. He could never let himself stray too far into his mind, he knew that now, not so long as he was wrapped up in Hannibal’s embrace.  

Instead, he lifts the knife out in front of him, shivering involuntarily when Hannibal’s lips brush against the side of his neck.

Perhaps… perhaps it was always meant to come to this. Hannibal’s breath heavy on Will’s neck. Thick arms holding him close. And a sharp knife so tempting in his hand. It would be so easy, just this once, to _give in_.

Will breathes in deeply, releasing the breath slowly as he loosens his grip, relaxes. Then, he begins.

 

Will doesn’t sleep that night. He feels too jittery – whether from guilt or excitement, Will’s not sure.

He’s not sure about a lot anymore.

A part of him is sure he should be feeling guilty. A larger part of him wants to tell that other part to go fuck itself. After all, Will had only done what he needed to do to survive.

If there’s one thing Will knows to avoid, it’s disappointing Hannibal. And if he’d done anything differently, he knows Hannibal would have been displeased. He’d have pretended otherwise, but Will knew that for a fact.

And so what if some small, wild part of Will had _enjoyed_ it?

Hannibal had left him alone afterwards, citing the need for a cleanup. And, going by the glint in his eye, a _display_.

Will lays in his bed for hours, perhaps all through the night, waiting for Hannibal.

Will’s not sure when it started. The waiting.

The need for simple human contact.

In the morning, he moves to sit on the floor beside Hannibal’s chair. When Hannibal walks in, he pauses at the threshold at the sight of Will. Then he blinks and his lips twitch into a satisfied smile, and he closes the door behind him.

“Good morning, Hannibal,” Will murmurs, forcing his shoulders to relax back against Hannibal’s legs when he sits down. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Hannibal doesn’t pretend to misunderstand Will’s meaning.

“Immensely.” A hand comes to rest on Will’s head, gently stroking his curls back, out of his face.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Hannibal content to pet Will and Will to be petted. At least for now.

When Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on Will’s shoulder at last, Will takes the opportunity to ask something he’s been thinking over for a while.

“Where do you see this going, exactly, Hannibal?” Will looks up at Hannibal’s face, resting his head on his father’s knees behind him. “Why would you do this, _specifically_ this? _Why_?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away, instead taking the time to really think about his answer, which Will appreciates. Finally, he looks down at Will, and rests his palms against Will’s cheeks.

“I’m doing this, my darling Will, because I want to. I’m doing this because it is the most efficient and interesting way that I can keep you. I’m doing this… because you are _my son_ and I feel no guilt in taking what is already _mine_.”

His long fingers begin stroking Will’s face lovingly, possessively, smile crinkling the lines around his eyes.

Will swallows around his suddenly dry mouth and wishes he’d never asked. He looks down and away from Hannibal’s face, thus dislodging his hands from Will’s face, and promises himself he’ll never again sit around _waiting_ for Hannibal.

And he hates himself, because he knows that’s a lie.

 

The idea comes to Will rather suddenly one night.

He’s curled up on his bed, knees tucked up against his chest. Clothes already soaked from sweating so much. He hasn’t been able to properly fall sleep - nightmares plague him every time he closes his eyes, of a raven stag stalking him down miles and miles of deserted road. The terrified screams of a dead man echoing in the forests around him, accusatory and shrill.   

And then there it is, this ridiculous, horribly plausible idea.

It could work. Of course it could, if the amount of time Hannibal has traced his lips with feather-light fingertips or stroked the small of his back is any indication.

Hannibal wants him.

Even knowing what they are to each other, he wants Will, wants to grab him and hold him down and–

Will sits up, back hunching over as his lungs heave and vomit pours out of his throat in staggered bursts of motion. Shakily, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and swears quietly.

It could work.

 

And after that night, it’s like the thought won’t leave him alone. Every time Hannibal enters the room, Will can’t help but stare at him, just… _considering_.

Hannibal wants to possess him, in any and all the ways that he can, and he must want Will to make the first move if he’s not done anything yet himself. He wants Will to surrender himself to him.

Will could do that – or, more accurately, he could _pretend_ to do that. It’s just sex. It doesn’t matter that they’re related, or that Will’s never done it before.

It can’t. Not if he’s going to go through with it.

All he has to do is let Hannibal fuck him. Make him relax, let his guard down, and then— Will could… do _something_. Hit Hannibal’s head against the wall, or drive his fingers into his eye sockets. Stab him with one of those annoying plastic utensils he always gives Will with his meals.

This could actually work.

Will almost starts to feel excited at the prospect. He could finally be free of this gilded cage, could escape. Though more physical attempts have failed him, perhaps with a more subtle approach he could finally succeed.

He begins feeling so hopeful, he can almost completely block out the sex part of the whole scenario.

When Hannibal comes down that afternoon with his lunch, Will greets him but otherwise remains his quiet, stoic self.

The moment Hannibal’s back is turned, however, Will breaks the plastic fork in his hand, quickly pocketing a long, sharply pointed shard of the plastic.

“Oh!” he gasps, making his tone sound genuinely surprised. When Hannibal turns to see what’s wrong, he makes his eyes go round and apologetic. “I’m sorry, the fork broke. Can I have another one please, Hannibal?”

Hannibal’s bright eyes are as focused on Will’s face as ever, but he must not sense anything suspicious for he only nods. He leaves the room for just a moment, returning with a new fork and holding a hand out for the one Will had broken.

Will hands the broken pieces over, mind immediately on what could be beyond the door of his prison. He hadn’t paid his surroundings much attention the last time he’d been out there, too disorientated by the dark and... other things.

Hannibal must keep the cutlery very close by to have gotten a new one so quickly. Maybe there were more weapons out there for Will to grab, should his initial stab not be enough.

Quietly thanking Hannibal, Will watches as the man goes about making himself comfortable in his chair.

So, it was going to be one of those days.

Hannibal would probably sit here for a few hours, watching Will, and drawing him in his small leather-bound book.

Sighing, Will turns to his meal and begins eating, casually pondering what pig Hannibal might have served him today.

 

The time has come. Will can’t keep putting it off. There’s no real reason to delay it further.

This is the only feasible option he has, and he knows it. Nothing else has even a minuscule chance of working, not without Hannibal cottoning on to what Will is doing immediately.

When Hannibal comes down for dinner that night, Will’s eyes remain glued to him. As usual, he sets their plates on the desk, placing their plastic cutlery _just so_. Then, he goes out again to retrieve their wine glasses, placing each by their respective plates.

When Will does not get up to take his place as usual, Hannibal finally turns to look at him, single brow raised in question.

Will considers him, eyes raking over his deceptively strong build, willing himself to make a move. He just has to make it believable. Desire Hannibal, if only just for now.

All it takes in the end is for Hannibal to take a step towards him, eyes narrowed, for Will to move. He stands up from his bed slowly, head tilted to the side as he observes his father, his eyes lidded. He can do this.

Hannibal meets him in the middle of the room, question on the tip of his tongue. Will stops him with the press of his fingers against Hannibal’s lips, his other hand reaching up to card through the soft hair at the back of Hannibal’s neck.

“Will, what are you doing?”

Will is evidently no expert on this, but he figures kissing is probably the best place to start. It’s certainly something Hannibal appears to enjoy.

He presses his lips against Hannibal’s ever so carefully, eyes closed away from his father’s knowing gaze, simply trying out the motions of it.

He can admit to liking the way Hannibal’s lips feel against his own, soft but firm, and the way his tongue eventually presses back against Will’s own.

They kiss for a while, no more than a few moments, before Hannibal gently pushes Will away, hands holding onto his wrists.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice is deeper than normal, almost guttural. “Look at me, William.”

Will finally opens his eyes, his face flaming, but willing himself not to care. Hannibal’s eyes are dark, and wanting, but cautious. The kind of caution that any seasoned predator will have, particularly in the face of prey so readily offered up.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“What I want to do.” Will trails his fingers down Hannibal’s neck and chest, gratified to see his breathing speed up in response. “Isn’t that what you said? That I should… always… do what I want… without caring what the rest of the world thinks?”

After each pause, Will presses a light kiss against the side of Hannibal’s neck, stopping only when the older man tightens his grip on Will’s wrists. Will looks up at Hannibal from under his lashes, a mischievous smile teasing the edges of his lips.

“I did say that. But you yourself once told me you would never want this, did you not?”

Will nods, eyes on the floor, as though contrite.

“Well, I want it now. I want _you_. Are you going to deny me?”

Hannibal stares at Will, lifting his chin to peer into his eyes for an intense moment. But then he pulls back, nodding, and loosens his grip on Will.

“Very well, dear Will. Wait a moment.”

And with that he abruptly turns and leaves the room, locking the door behind him. Will slumps immediately, sitting down on the bed with a harsh sigh. His gaze wanders over to the pillows at the head of the bed, thoughts on what lies hidden there and how soon he will be able to retrieve it. His heart feels like it’s trying to beat right out of his chest. What is he _thinking_? What if Hannibal knows that Will’s trying to play him, or what if he–

Just as suddenly as he had left, Hannibal returns, a handful of items clasped in his hands. Though Will can guess just what they are, he doesn’t dare to look at them, focusing instead on radiating calm. He leans back on the bed, gaze locked with Hannibal’s, trying to appear un-phased. Aroused. _Willing_.

Whatever he sees in Will’s eyes, Hannibal must like, for he smirks slightly and begins to take off his clothes. Will’s mouth quickly dries up, his own hands steadfastly refusing to remove his own clothing.

Now naked, and- and _hard_ , Hannibal prowls over to Will, hand clasping around an ankle to pull him onto his back. He deposits the mystery items on the bed beside Will, before moving to remove Will’s clothes, eyes still locked with Will’s own.

This won’t work, Will realises with no small amount of panic. Not like this.

Will tries to keep his breathing even, but the feeling of Hannibal towering over him makes him feel breathless, vulnerable.

He puts a hand on Hannibal’s chest and pushes him back, smiling at him to take the rejection out of it.

Turning them so that Hannibal lies on the bed instead, Will moves to stand by his feet. Hannibal watches with heavy eyes as Will proceeds to remove the rest of his clothes, stood between Hannibal’s spread legs.

With every article of clothing he removes, Will feels a little more of his reluctance, his worry, ease away. The look on Hannibal’s face feeds his confidence, until Will feels he might burst from it.

Once naked, Will tries not to shy away from Hannibal’s gaze. He gets on the bed, moving to straddle Hannibal’s lap on wobbly knees.

His lack of erection is perhaps telling but he tries to compensate by distracting Hannibal, stroking his hands up through the wiry, silvering hair on his chest.

“Are you sure you want to remain in this position, Will?” Hannibal asks, one arm behind his head as he watches Will explore his body.

“Why? Don’t you like it like this?” Will asks, tone playful as he barely grazes a nipple with his fingertip.

“I’d like it any way with you, darling,” Hannibal replies softly, hands grasping Will’s hips. “But I feel it prudent to inform you that, for your _first_ time, this may be a little too adventurous. This position can feel significantly more intense, in my experience.”

Will tries valiantly to fight off the blush that begins spreading down his neck, but it’s no use really. He can already see the delight in Hannibal’s eyes at Will’s body’s responsiveness to his words.

Trying to maintain his pseudo confidence, Will straightens in Hannibal’s lap and tightens his knees about Hannibal’s surprisingly trim waist. Those suits certainly succeed in hiding more than just Hannibal’s secret hobby.

“I want it like this,” Will says, stubborn to the last, and unwilling to feel any more vulnerable than he already is about to be.

Hannibal just raises an eyebrow in response, conceding to Will’s demand, and clearly waiting for him to start.  

Now that he’s finally here, Will’s plan is suddenly feeling a lot more difficult than he’d originally imagined. But then that’s what was bound to happen, he supposes, when you basically block out the main component of your escape plan for weeks on end.

Will reaches down, closing his hands around Hannibal’s erection. He tries to focus on the feel of it, the girth and rigidity- anything to divert focus from thoughts on who this particular dick belongs to. But, as though he can read Will’s mind, Hannibal does everything in his power to subvert that attempt.

His groans and moans pierce into Will’s mind as Will slowly strokes his hands upwards, grinding his hips upwards subtly against Will’s. These small movements, in turn, begin to rub the underside of Will’s own dick. At first, he jumps slightly at the feeling, eyes immediately darting up to look at Hannibal’s face to see if he’d noticed. But Hannibal’s eyes are closed, expression the closest approximation to bliss Will thinks he is likely to see on Hannibal’s face.

Heart beating rapidly in his chest, Will slowly begins to move his hips in counterpoint to Hannibal’s, willing his stupid dick to get on with the programme already.

And, by some miracle, it works. Slowly but surely Will feels himself becoming hard, the stimulation of Hannibal’s hard dick rubbing up against the underside of his own slowly bringing it to life.

Will has only just gotten the hang of all of this, brain working overtime on the task at hand – literally – when a strange, wet prodding at his ass has him jumping in surprise.

He looks up at Hannibal’s face again, to find his sire staring straight back at him, pupils dilated. Though one of his hands has at some point come up to grip Will’s left hip, his other is out of sight – behind Will.

In his peripheral vision, Will can see an uncapped bottle on the bed next to them, but he doesn’t let himself look over at it. Instead, he keeps eye-contact with Hannibal as that same prodding touch flutters over the globes of his ass, tracing light patterns that are clearly heading in a very particular direction.

When a finger finally reaches its intended destination, pressing in lightly and then with considerably more force, Will tries his hardest not to squirm. Hannibal’s eyes seem to be daring him to look away, to ask him to stop.

Instead, Will pushes back on that finger, fighting how uncomfortable it makes him feel, trying instead to focus on the pleasant friction on his dick. He grips Hannibal harder, feeling a visceral enjoyment at the way Hannibal’s eyes narrow as a result.

He grins at Hannibal, finally feeling like they are on somewhat equal footing- and bucks forward instinctively when Hannibal suddenly pushes two fingers inside of Will, the sharp burn causing Will to close his eyes on a hiss.

The fingers continue their relentless assault, sliding in and out without pause, stretching Will with an efficiency that should not surprise Will at this point.

Will is only just opening his eyes, realizing belatedly that he had been gripping Hannibal harder than intended, when Hannibal removes his fingers.

He tuts until Will looks up, locking eyes once more. His gaze is expecting, anticipatory– _of course_ , Will thinks. It couldn’t just be this easy, could it? He had half expected Hannibal to take charge once Will gave him the go-ahead, but of course that wouldn’t be enough. He’d want Will to do this himself. Consciously, willingly, _himself_.

With that thought in mind, Will moves to line Hannibal’s dick up to his stretched hole. He lets the seconds tick by for a few moments, trying to quell his thundering heart, before he slowly sinks down.

The first thing that really strikes him about this, is the sheer _size_ of it. It hadn’t felt terribly large in his hand – more girthy than himself, sure, but then that wasn’t overly hard – but _now_.. it feels huge.

It takes several moments, hands grasping tightly onto his father’s chest and stomach, for Will to fully seat himself on it. He lets out a long sigh at the end of it, absurdly proud of himself, and lets his head hang back for a moment.

When he looks over at Hannibal again to gauge his feelings, his sire is wholly focused on Will. That same awe and darkness Will had occasionally seen flit across his face before are now at the forefront of Hannibal’s expression; alternating between supremely smug and supremely affected every time Will twitches or his breath hitches.

Experimentally, Will tries rocking back on Hannibal’s dick, lifting off and then sitting back down again. The feeling isn’t particularly pleasant, but then again it isn’t _unpleasant_ , either. He’s pulled out of his mind once more when Hannibal begins stroking him, his softening dick quickly brought back to life under Hannibal’s dutiful fingers.

Simultaneously, Will feels Hannibal begin to move his own hips, his strokes upward seeming as experimental as Will’s own. Will isn’t sure why he’s being so careful and slow, eyes locked onto even the most minute of Will’s reactions, until he suddenly brushes past something inside of Will that makes Will jolt up in surprised pleasure. Oh. Of course.

Hannibal’s smugness at Will’s surprise practically leaks out of his pours, his fingers moving to grip onto Will’s hip more firmly before he strokes up into that same spot once more. And then again. Even expecting it, Will isn’t prepared for the bursts of pleasure this causes, his erection growing with a speed he hasn’t experienced since his teenage years.

It’s a mindfuck, that this should feel so good, that doing this with _Hannibal_ should feel so good, but it does. As Hannibal begins to pick up the pace, his hips rhythmically pushing up into Will, Will can’t help but think _so this is why all the guys on the force were so obsessed with talking about sex_. Though Will doubts very many of them were thinking of _this_ particular scenario when they did so.

Hannibal’s blunt nails dig into Will’s flesh as he starts to thrust up into him faster, Will’s own hips pushing down to meet him half-way on every other stroke.

He can feel his climax building, a mounting pressure he pushes down forcefully as he moves his face forward, closer to Hannibal’s. He places his palms on the bed on either side of Hannibal’s head, leaning forward to kiss him hard. He nips and teases at his lips, eyes closed as Hannibal continues his hard thrusts, his right hand slowly extending towards the pillows.

Will’s fingers close around the shard he’d placed there just as Hannibal gives a particularly hard thrust, causing Will to moan into Hannibal’s mouth. He only realises this is the first time he’s done so when he feels Hannibal’s lips spread into a smirk, opening his eyes to see the very evident satisfaction on his father’s face.

Will sits up slightly, sliding the sharp plastic along with him under his hand.

To think it had to come to this for him to reach this moment.

Will gasps out a heaving breath, and then another, and then he lifts his hand to strike.

He aims for Hannibal’s face, specifically his left eye, but Hannibal manages to block the hit with his arm, the plastic striking him in his forearm.

Will scrambles to retrieve the shard, grappling with Hannibal violently, but what little blood the cut has released slicks his hands too much for him to get a good enough hold. With a grunt, Hannibal pulls the plastic out of his flesh, flinging it onto the floor.

Will doesn’t pause to hear it hit the ground, doesn’t stop fighting for a moment, lunging immediately forward with his teeth, aiming for his father’s jugular. Before he can make contact, however, he feels a hard blow to his side, Hannibal’s fist knocking the breath out of him.

Will unconsciously clenches around Hannibal in response, causing them both to groan, their erections no less prominent despite all that’s occurred in the last few seconds. They both pause at this point, breaths heaving, and Will sees that he has a choice here. He can take the easy route, can clench around the hard dick in his ass until Hannibal (hopefully) forgets all about Will’s momentary rebellion. Or.. or he can try again.

Will’s never really taken the easy route with anything in his life.

He quickly scrambles to wrap his hands around Hannibal’s throat, only just beginning to squeeze when Hannibal grips his wrists so hard he can feel his bones grind together. He tries to hold on, tries squeezing harder, but the mounting pressure and pain makes Will’s hold slip momentarily. It’s enough for Hannibal to yank Will’s hands away from his throat, to lift Will completely up and off of his lap and slam him face-down onto the bed.

Will kicks and screams and swears, trying to get a hit in anywhere he can reach, trying to scramble out from under Hannibal, but Hannibal doesn’t relent. Just holds him down until eventually Will’s too tired to move, until he’s gasping quietly into the bedsheets, one hand on the nape of Will’s neck and the other holding his wrists securely behind his back.

Will is only just calming down enough to wonder what will happen next, how Hannibal will react – if he’ll _punish_ Will again – when Hannibal suddenly and forcefully pushes back inside of Will.

Will gasps, hips lifting to try to buck Hannibal off, but he takes no notice- immediately setting a brutal pace. His hips slam down hard onto Will’s, repeatedly, breath hot on Will’s neck.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Hannibal whispers, lips brushing against Will’s ear. “To have even thought of this, let alone to have gone through with it… I had not expected it of you. But then, perhaps I should have, hmm? It is just like you, my darling, to go running into danger. Like a wayward child in need of their parent’s attention. Well, you have my _full_ attention now, don’t you?”

Hannibal pounds Will’s hole, the already sensitive rim rubbed raw with the continued assault.

Hannibal lets go of Will’s hands to start jacking him off again, the pumps of his hand fast and hard. Will lays there limply, the fight drained out of him.

Loathe though he is to admit it, their tussle did nothing to reduce Will’s libido. He feels his climax building even more intensely than it had before, as his father continues to fuck him, his grip on Will’s hips more than hard enough to bruise.

Will’s climax peaks suddenly, his whole body beginning to tingle and shake uncontrollably; such a different feeling to the comparatively minor climaxes he used to have when jerking off in the shower at home.

Hannibal comes a moment after him, as though he was waiting for Will to finish first, his hips pushing in once, twice, thrice more before he groans gruffly, biting lightly into the meat of Will’s shoulder blade.

When Hannibal slips out of him, Will lays there for a few moments, whether from shock or exertion he doesn’t know. He cautiously turns to lay on his back, his asshole aching, to face Hannibal. His father is leaning above Will with his arms caging Will in on either side of his body. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal looks very pleased.

Hannibal reaches to his left for something, and before Will can react – if he even would at this point – Hannibal sinks a syringe into Will’s pliant neck.

Will loses consciousness quickly, doesn’t fight the feeling, his heavy-lidded gaze locked onto the darkly satisfied maroon of his father’s eyes until he loses consciousness.

 

 

When will wakes, he feels sore all over.  

At first the room spins, but when that feeling gradually stops, he sits up, wincing at how the action affects his aching bottom.

The room looks immaculate as ever, clean and devoid of both his or Hannibal’s clothes. A single covered dish of food remains on the desk, along with a bottle of water.

Will is naked, and when he stands up he feels a slow trickle of wetness seep down onto his inner thighs.

As the reality of what he did finally starts hitting home, Will feels himself start to hyperventilate.

He sinks down to the floor, feeling like the last few weeks (or was it months?) meant nothing, because here he is again on the cold hard ground. Only this time, nothing can stop the tears from overflowing, or halt his hiccupping cries in this throat.


End file.
